


Darkest Before Dawn

by Littlefeather



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Drama, Friendship/Love, Slow Burn, Unplanned Pregnancy, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:59:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2843843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlefeather/pseuds/Littlefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor and Sansa sleep together on the night of the blackwater but he still leaves after. Sansa has a baby in the Vale but when Littlefinger realizes the baby is not Tyrion’s he takes her to The Quiet Isle to force her to give the baby to the brothers to find a new family for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [irismoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irismoon/gifts).



> The work and art are both gifts for Irismoongarden (irismoon) for the Sansa_Sandor Live Journal Holiday Fic Exchange. Please do not use the art anywhere else because they belong to her. Thank you!
> 
> Thank you DeborahBrucie! You are a terrific beta and friend. :D

  

 

Sansa pondered what had became of Sandor Clegane nearly every day. She wondered what he was doing, if he had finally found the peace that she prayed he would and most of all, if he ever thought of her, too. Staring out at the storm clouds gathering over the Blackwater Rush, she gently fingered a small piece of his white velvet cloak that he left her. After the battle, Sansa had carefully cleaned, cut and embroidered the material with a dog and a bird at play and carefully concealed it in her underskirts.  

Replaying her one night of pleasure with the man was all the joy that life afforded her now. If not for the babe inside of her, Sansa believed she would have taken her own life long ago.  
  
_One day I’ll have a song from you, whether you will it or not._  

In the darkened bedchamber she shared with Tyrion, Sansa could still feel the Hound rasping those words against the shell of her ear, his hot breath warming her. His battle hardened, muscular frame pressed tightly against her body. As he spoke, he gripped her arms, the man struggling to steady himself. The feel of his powerful body sent a sharp shiver of excitement coursing through Sansa then. Her response to the Hound had shocked Sansa to her core, and, despite the fact that he was drunk and wavering, she was intensely aroused.

Squirming, Sansa sought out more of him, pushing her body tightly against his own. Her breath became ragged from the utter masculinity his imposing form. Immediately the Hound recognized her reaction to him. She remembered the heated flush of embarrassment. His deep grey eyes widened an sparkled with a wicked gleam, his mouth curling into a satisfied grin as his gaze travelled to her heaving chest. Overwhelmed as Sansa was by the very nearness of the fierce, imposing Hound, her breasts strained against the confines of her too-small gown as she struggled to control her breathing.  
  
Chuckling, the Hound abruptly loosened his hold on her.

“Gods, too much wine. Do you like wine, little bird? True wine? A flagon of sour red, dark as blood, all a man needs. Or a woman.”

His words were all the encouragement Sansa needed. "Do you need a woman, Sandor?"

"Stupid Little bird," he slurred, though he moved closer still. "You know not what you're saying."

When they first met, it was true that Sansa had been wholly naive; in fact, she might have missed the Hound’s meaning entirely if he had not already mentioned that he thought her pretty-not once-but three times more.  She might have remained ignorant of the Hound’s ever growing desire for her if not for his remarks about her developing body. Sandor was drunk when he made such comments, but it did not matter: her lord father had always said there was a measure of truth in the foolish words of a drunk, and in Sandor Clegane, Sansa found that such proved to be true.  
  
The Hound found her appealing, of that Sansa was certain, and what was more, she found herself returning his feelings. While his interest in her had piqued her curiosity, she knew at the time she could do nothing about it, for Sansa belonged to the king. However, the young woman was very discreet when she began watching the Hound as he watched her. She knew that he returned her feelings, and the realization that he held more than just a desire to use her body, more than a mere passing sentiment for her astounded and thrilled the young woman in equal measure.

Before long, though, it was obvious to Sansa that Joffrey had grown tired of her; he made it clear that he would throw her over for another and use the opportunity to take her head as he had her father. At first the thought frightened her, but as time passed, Sansa slowly changed her focus. Instead of worrying on how to please Joffrey to ensure her survival, Sansa decided that regardless of the consequences, she would live for herself. She would take any and all opportunities to find pleasure in the short amount of her life she had left and lived as though each day were her last.  
  
Unfortunately they had very little time alone, but by the time the Hound came to her on the night of the Blackwater battle, Sansa both knew full well what he truly wanted from her, and she clearly understood what she wanted from him as well.

"I do understand you," Sansa blushed. "I-I can sing for you."

“Pretty little innocent bird.” Sandor had stroked her cheek, almost reverently. “I’ll have that song, then. Florian and Jonquil, you said.”

He laid the flat of cold steel to her throat. There was no real threat in the man, she quickly discovered, for one look at him told Sansa that he was as broken as she. Laying beneath him, Sansa boldly stared into his deep gray eyes and pushed the hand that held the knife away, her fear melting as quickly as a dusting of summer snow on Winterfell’s roof.

"I'll sing it for you gladly, but not with that knife at my throat." 

“Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.” Sandor prompted her roughly, though he dropped his knife to the floor and his eyes betrayed his insecurity.

Under any other conditions, the idea that the Hound would be so easily dissuaded by a young defenseless woman would have made her laugh, but there was nothing funny about the situation they both were in. Taking the Hound’s face in her hands, Sansa had sang the Mother’s hymn to him instead, hoping it would soothe him.

And soothe him it did.  
  
“Little bird,” the Hound had rasped as she cupped the burned side of his cheek, his tears wetting her fingers.

All of the anger had left him in that moment and so tentatively Sansa leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on his mouth.  
  
“What in bloody hells are you doing?” Sandor jerked back, the fierceness in his eyes burning hotly once more.  When she merely smiled at him, he added quietly: “What do you want from me, girl?”  
  
Daringly Sansa reached out to him. “I want to give you the song that you wanted.” Turning toward the basin, Sansa wrung out a rag and began gently bathing his brow.

Surprisingly, he allowed her ministrations, his breathing slowing with each pass of the cloth.  
  
“Florian and Jonquil?” Sandor spat out when she finished, all the vitriol in his tone having vanished. “A fool and his cunt; spare me.”  
  
“Perhaps another kind of song, then.”  Coyly Sansa looked up at him and felt her face flush as she waited for him to speak. “You tried to help me here…you were the only one.” She paused, unable to decide how to word her request. “I won’t last much longer here; I think we both know that. Ser Ilyn will have my head this very night if things take a turn for the worse. But before I quit this world, I want to feel what other women feel. I want to give my maidenhead to you of my own free will.”  
  
Clearly stunned, the Hound blinked several times as he tried to clear his wine addled head. For a moment she thought he might refuse her. To help him decide, Sansa walked over to the bed, laid down and raised her skirts.

“Come into me, Sandor.”

It was the first time she used his first name.

Sandor gaped at her for a moment and then hurriedly stripped out of his armor. “You’re certain?” He asked as though he thought he heard her wrong. “I’m an ugly bastard for true. Sure you don’t want to hold out for your pretty knight in shining armor?”  
  
“Yes, I am certain I want to be with you.” Sansa bounced her feet impatiently on the mattress. "And you are not ugly, not even with your scars." Daringly she glanced at him, standing there in his smallclothes with a dumbfounded look on his face.  
  
“You’ve never been with a man, Little bird? No one outraged you?” Sandor grunted into her ear as climbed over her. “Tell me truly.”

His body trembled above her as he took her into his arms.  
  
Sansa shook her head. “No. I’ve never been with a man and I have not been raped.”

In that moment she felt horribly awkward. “Do you doubt me, my lord?”  
  
For once, the Hound didn’t scold her for calling him by that particular missive.

“I knew as much already, lass, I just needed to hear you say it.” He rasped almost sadly. Cautiously Sandor then reached out and stroked her thumb across her bottom lip while eying her with the same look of lust she had so often seen shining in his eyes as he stared at her in court.

“You’re  _certain_  you want this with me and not one of your pretty little lords?”  
  
Sansa drew Sandor’s head down and kissed him slowly, languidly, as though they were lovers who had the entire night ahead of them.

“I want this with you, Sandor Clegane. You and no other.”  
  
With a gentleness that surprised her, Sandor began to kiss her while slowly running his calloused fingertips over the soft flesh of her thighs. When she stiffened a bit, Sandor stilled his hand, allowing her to get used to the feel of him before pushing her smallclothes aside. Slowly, Sandor traced his hand over her mound and then dipped his index finger into her slit, causing Sansa to cry out into his mouth as he kissed her.

After a while, his movements started to feel good, and she wriggled impatiently beneath him until suddenly he thrust his finger in deeper still, breaking her maiden’s veil.  
  
“It had to be done, lass, or else I’ll hurt you,” Sandor panted out, the man already trembling with arousal. “Hmm, you’re wet for me. It goes easier when a woman wants it as much as the man. Try to relax now.”

Patiently he began moving his hand and the initial pain was soon replaced by an unusual feeling of fullness.  
  
Nodding, Sansa drew a deep breath as Sandor reached his other hand around her and began massaging tight circles over her center of pleasure. Leaning over her, he then nuzzled her breast and then began suckling her nipple as he pleasured her. Before long, Sansa was writhing and moaning beneath him, gasping and calling out his name until she stiffened and cried out her completion.  
  
“Good girl,” Sandor grinned approvingly at her when she came to her senses. "Liked that, did you?"

Blushing, she lowered her eyes and soon felt his hand tipping her face back up to his own. 

"Yes, I liked it very much," Sansa whispered into his mouth.

Stunned, the Hound held her tightly against him.

“By gods I could spend a lifetime learning every inch of your sweet body, Sansa.”

He clenched his jaw tightly as though he wanted to say more.  
  
Satiated, Sansa closed her eyes and leaned back among the pillows. Her haze pleasure was soon replaced by apprehension as she felt him move over her and place his manhood at her entrance. When Sandor entered her, there was another sharp pain. Sansa bit her lip to keep from crying.

Sandor felt her tense in his arms, so he ceased his movements and gently wiped away her tears with the rough pad of his finger; afterward Sandor kissed each of her cheeks.

“It won’t hurt anymore, lass,” he grunted as he began to move once more.

Sandor seemed completely lost in his own pleasure, using her body to satisfy himself, although Sansa did experience a second release at the same time he emptied his seed inside of her. 

“I ought not to have done that,” Sandor chuckled somewhat self-consciously as he rolled off of her. “Might get you with child. You’re so bloody delicious I couldn’t help myself.”  
  
“I-I would love to carry your child.” Sansa blurted out stupidly. The act itself was over rather quickly-too quickly for Sansa to decide just what she felt-but still she enjoyed being so close to him.

Sandor merely gaped at her. Both of them knew it would mean certain death if she were to become pregnant while still betrothed to the king. It saddened her to realize that Sandor, having deserted the king, was already as good as dead.

“That sounded foolish, I know." She fretfully wrung her hands. "Let me say it a different way: in another life, I would gladly carry your children.”  
  
Frowning, Sandor abruptly stopped dressing. Closing the distance between them, he gripped her jaw and stared into her eyes questioningly, his previous anger draining from his face, leaving him pale and drawn.

“Fuck me sideways, I believe you would at that.” Sandor muttered low, the irritation in his eyes fading as suddenly as it flared up. Gently he swept her up into his arms and kissed her with a tenderness that took her breath away.

“But I have to leave, lass, else Joff wi'll have my ugly head."

Sandor trembled even harder as he held her until suddenly he asked her to go with him.

But Sansa refused. He was drunk when he made the offer and most likely would have regretted it the moment he sobered up. And this was one area in which she could protect Sandor as well, for if word got around that the Hound had made off with the King’s betrothed, he would be hunted like an animal.  
  
When Sansa  whispered her answer to him, Sandor abruptly tore himself away from her. Without a word he yanked off his Kingsguard cloak, threw it on the floor and left the room without so much as a glance behind him. Sansa had sobbed herself to sleep.

Little did Sandor Clegane know that his words were actually oracular, for Sansa did, in fact, become pregnant that night.

Now she wallowed in her own purgatory of sorts, married to the Imp and still living in the Red Keep while carrying Sandor Clegane’s child. Not for the first time, she wondered if it had been a mistake not to go with him.  
  
Startled by the sound of the solar door opening, Sansa turned away from the picture window to see her lord husband staring intently at her. 

“Good evening, devoted wife,” Tyrion jested in his usual manner, though concern was written plainly on his face. “You seem even more distracted than usual, my lady. Are you quite well?”  
  
_How can you even ask me such a thing? Your family holds me as a prisoner and forced me into a marriage I never wanted to begin with_ , Sansa inwardly screamed, as she did any time a Lannister spoke to her. She was angry with him for interrupting her thoughts, angry with him for even speaking to her. Outwardly Sansa showed no emotion as she discreetly hid the material and folded her hands and turned toward him politely.

“I am quite well, my lord.”

Tyrion looked startled but he grinned at her anyway, his eyes reflecting no good humor, only genuine unease.  It was lost on her however; it had only a fortnight since they had heard of the Red Wedding. The Lannisters killed her father, mother and brother, and with them, any kind feelings she may have had towards Tyrion. His concern was nothing to Sansa.  
  
Glancing at the clock on the mantle, she discovered that she was still sitting in the exact same spot as she had been when her lord husband left her four hours prior. Sansa had spent the entire afternoon daydreaming of Sandor Clegane and of the last time she had seen him.

“I-I was thinking of my family, and the time slipped away from me.” She offered by way of explanation. "I have neglected my duties to you. Forgive me."  
  
Tyrion watched her curiously while waiting for her to speak further. "I was not thinking of that, only of your health."

Schooling her expression into one of passive pleasantry, Sansa offered him a demure smile. “Forgive me, my lord. Physically I am fine, thank you. I do not mean to be curt with you. Grief has overtaken my sleeping and waking hours alike, and I must admit I am no longer interested in even the most basic of daily activities.” Absently Sansa rubbed her belly as she spoke. “I will try to do better tomorrow.”  
  
“I hope you will, Sansa, if not for my sake, then for the sake of your unborn child.”

He handed her a glass of milk and a bowl of iced raspberries. “Here, you must take nourishment. Podrick,” he motioned for his squire, “bring the lady a roast leg of lamb from the kitchens.”  
  
“Thank you, my lord.” Sansa assented, accepting her husband’s offerings with another smile.  
  
They had not lain together as husband and wife, so Tyrion was well aware that the child is not his; in fact, he recognized the symptoms of Sansa’s pregnancy before she did not long after they first wed. But to his credit, the man himself did not reveal her secret and had been attentive in his own way.  To Sansa’s surprise, he did not even inquire about the identity of the father; his only concern had been if she had gone with the fatherllingly or if the child belonged to some knight whose bloodlust after the battle had gotten the better of him.  
  
It troubled him so much that Sansa finally admitted she was not raped, that she had gone with the man willingly and that he was no knight. She regretted her last choice of words as soon as they came out of her mouth that day. But if the one clue to the father’s identity she let slip had led Tyrion to determine the man in question was in fact Sandor Clegane, he never let on.  
  
“Joffrey weds on the morrow, my lady. He has asked us to break his fast with him.” Tyrion studied her closely, as though he were trying to read her thoughts. “Do you think you will feel up to attending? If not-“  
  
Sansa’s distant demeanor was unwavering, and her eyes were as far away from him as the north in that moment.

“Yes,” Sansa finally answered decidedly, surprising the man. “It will be my pleasure to attend.”


	2. Chapter 2

The Elder brother sat across from him in the septry, gazing with the same patient expression that never failed to annoy Sandor. Knowing what the holy man was going to ask, he gritted his teeth and waited, the silence stretching between them. They have been over the same subject many times, but still, Elder brother seemed to want something more from him, and even after all they had been through together, Sandor was still unwilling to give it. Swallowing down his anger, Sandor began to rub his leg anxiously, as he always did when thinking of Sansa.

“You dreamed about her again.” Elder brother stated while folding his hands. It was not a question, for Sandor’s bloodshot eyes and weary countenance revealed all too plainly that he had suffered through another restless night.

“Aye.” He answered reluctantly.

“Sandor, what is it you remember about the night you fled King’s Landing?”

He didn't remember a very much about the actual escape; it was what came before that haunted him.The wildfire had broken him. Sandor had come to her rooms, drunk and covered in blood, seeking comfort from the one good thing he had ever known in King’s Landing and wanting some of that goodness for himself. Seeing her cowering in her rooms brought a lifetime of anger to the fore and he took it out on her like the dog he was; yet the little bird had smiled sweetly at him, bathed his face and hands, held him and sang a hymn to calm his terror.

After the fever he survived, one which Septon Meribald claimed was the highest he had ever seen, it was a wonder that Sandor remembered anything at all; and yet Sansa’s memory shone as brightly in his dreams as if the battle had just occurred.Shifting in his seat to accommodate his healing leg, Sandor heaved a sigh of annoyance but remained silent.  

 _Sansa_. Thinking of her even now hurt far more than any wound he had ever sustained. He wished the holy man would just shut the fuck up and let the matter go once and for all. Sandor had been on the Quiet Isle for three months and still he refused to speak about it and had no intention of doing so; if the fool didn’t realize it by now, he never would _._ If any other man devilled him about the little bird, Sandor would have knocked his teeth out, but Elder brother had been kind to him. He cared for him as no other person had done in his life excepting his sister, and so, with great difficulty, Sandor struggled to control his temper.

“Do you remember how you managed to escape?” The Elder brother prompted him.

 _The man who tries to stop me is a dead man. Unless he’s on fire._ Sandor’s own words returned to him, bitter as bile. He remembered that he had made the boast to Sansa, hoping it would increase her faith in his ability to protect her.  Buried beneath the fear, the loathing, the drunkenness, the desire to keep her safe burned brightly and Sandor had come to her, hoping that if he managed to get up the bloody nerve to ask, she would agree to go with him.

She didn’t. After many hours of turning the matter over in his mind, Sandor couldn’t blame her. He had been drunk and covered in blood, frightening her at every turn-bloody hells, he even held a knife to her. Stannis was at the gate, and it was only logical that Sansa believed she stood a better chance surviving in the castle than trying to get through the Bloody Gate. The truth was, it _had_   been easy for Sandor Clegane to escape King’s Landing-it had been easy to ride out, easy to get through the gate: what was not easy was forgetting the little bird.

By the time Sandor went to her rooms that night, the young woman had long since stopped chirping without purpose; in fact, she had become a wolf bearing her teeth, pushing his knife aside with a determination that startled him. In fact, she had shown very little fear of him, which was more that could be said of the men he fought against that night. _If I hadn’t put a knife to her throat, she might not have shown any fear at all._ That was something he would have never done sober. _She might have gone with me._

Instead of screaming or begging for her life as Sandor would have expected, Sansa had kissed him so tenderly that it brought tears to his eyes, and then she sang for him. No one had ever sang to him in his entire life, that Sandor could remember; in fact, no one had ever kissed him, let alone bathed and tried to comfort him. Despite being a maiden, Sansa did not hesitate to make _other_ desires very clear to him. For perhaps the first time the man had been too stunned to react, could only stand and stare at her with his mouth gaping open like so many buggering fools had gawped at him just before tasting his steel. But that was not something he was going to discuss with the elder man.

Sandor closed his eyes to regain his composure while scenes from that night played behind his eyelids, images both grotesque and beautiful, sweet and horrifying. 

“The sky was green and filled with smoke. Blood everywhere. It was raining. The screams…” Sandor finally spoke, his words and thoughts jumbled together by his emotional state. The screams of the dying echoed clearly even in Sansa’s room-screams of men, screams of horses, of smallfolk women.“The little bird, she was hiding in her rooms from the King’s justice. I knew she’d come, so I waited.”

“I see. You mentioned the king’s justice-do you mean the royal executioner?” Elder brother’s eyes narrowed, the man sitting up straighter in his seat. Sandor had forgotten the man had once been a knight before his former life died on the Trident. “Why did the king order her killed?”

 _Because she’s a Stark, you bloody fool._ The harsh words died on his tongue as quickly as they came, for being on the Isle had led to Sandor getting into the habit of curbing his rough language. “Last chance to kill her before Stannis saved the day. And one last chance to get even with her kingly brother,” he explained quietly. “It wasn’t hard to get out of the Gate. The boys guarding it were green as grass, and hardly knew the danger they were in until it was too  late." Sandor rubbed his stubbled chin. "I should have made her leave with me.”

“And you feel guilty that you didn’t make her come with you.”Sighing, Elder brother did not press him for more details. 

“Aye, I suppose." Sandor said without thinking. "She wasn’t afraid of me, I could tell." She had looked him straight in the face, something precious few had ever done.

"You're certain about that, are you?"

"I've seen fear most of my life, I can recognize it easy enough." 

Elder brother nodded and waited. "So you said. Would you say she trusted you?"

Sandor didn't know he'd call it trust: more like he was the lesser of the evils she faced in the Red Keep. “Who can tell? She tried to comfort me. She sang for me, something about the Mother.”

“So she was a lady of faith.”

“Aye, she was," Sandor played with the fringe of his dunn robe. "And I taunted her for it.”

But that part wasn't what kept him awake at night. Even standing in the green light of the wildfire, Sansa was so lovely and innocent like one of the fairies his mother used to tell him about when he was a lad. For once in his life, Sandor hoped to possess such beauty even if only for a little while. But no matter how drunk he was, Sandor knew even as he stared at her that he would never force her, would never rob her of her innocence and break the thing he loved most about her. He was not Gregor, not even in his most perverse fantasies.

“Did you force yourself on her?” Elder brother carefully asked as though reading his thoughts. It was an annoying habit of the holy man, one Sandor could have done without. “I myself had done such as a knight before I died to my former way of life.”

“No. I wouldn’t have forced her, ever. I’m not my bloody brother. Besides,” Sandor could not help but sneer as he recalled the way she smiled shyly and lifted her skirts for him. “She was willing.”

“You’re certain of this?” Elder brother raised his brow. 

“Aye.” Sandor almost laughed out loud at the holy man's dumbfounded expression.

His experience may have been limited to whores but he knew enough to recognize desire and arousal in the woman. She told him she knew she didn’t have long, that Joffrey would take her head sooner rather than later. By gods, Sansa made her own choice, and that choice was _him_. She made her desires known to him in the plainest of terms. The little bird had said she wanted him as a man, wanted him to be the one to take her maidenhead, wanted to have a part of him to remember.

Sansa had caught him so completely off guard he had been dumbstruck by her straightforward request. Sandor had been both secretly pleased and yet saddened, aroused and yet hesitant. Though he craved her with a fierceness that sometimes frightened him, Sandor still had been unsure if he should go through with it. But when Sansa laid down on the bed, smiled at him and raised her skirts,  she had made his mind up for him, and he was not fool enough to turn down the treasure she was offering.

“She was very clear about it and I took her then.” That was all Sandor would say aloud as the memories poured forth of her sweet sighs, her warmth, her wetness, and the pretty flush of her cheeks when she found her peak.

Touching her, tasting her and filling her up brought Sandor more pleasure than all of his previous sexual experiences combined. He had wanted her then, not just for the night, but for the rest of his miserable life. On his knees. Sandor all but begged her to go with him, but she had said no.

“But she wouldn’t go with me.” Sandor spoke aloud, though he meant to remain silent.

“I see,” Elder brother pursed his lips while tapping his fingers together circumspectly. “And your memories of her disturb you.”

Sandor nodded, lost in thought. After he left her, the spectre of her memory had haunted him, robbing him of peaceful sleep each time he laid down. When he was on the road, it seemed that no amount of wine could rid Sandor of her either, something that had been a problem in King’s Landing as well. Now Sandor had no wine and no way to ease his mind; only a very patient holy man waiting for him to speak. 

“I should’ve taken her that night, taken her with me. I’m sorry for that but not for the rest.”

“You are not sorry for the things you did in service to the Lannisters?”

“I was loyal, and I obeyed my betters. I did what had to be done.” Sandor growled low, though he was not entirely convinced that he was as unrepentant as he led Elder brother to believe.

"I once felt as you do." Elder brother eyed him closely, the man’s expression devoid of judgment. “Watching over her was one of those duties.”

 “Aye, it was.”

“And you still feel it is your duty to protect her, even now that she is wedded to Tyrion Lannister.”

“Not a duty. It would be to keep my promise.” Sandor confessed before biting his lip. "And she fucking didn't choose to marry him, believe that. The little bird's marriage is a sham cooked up by the Lannisters to get their paws on Winterfell."

"Sandor, mind your language, please." Elder brother's words buzzed somewhere in the background but Sandor couldn't be bothered to answer him.  

 _I’ll keep you safe._ No, it was not out of duty that he wanted to protect her; it was because he cared for Sansa very deeply, far more so than he would ever allow himself to admit to some buggering nosy holy man.

"If Sansa Stark happened upon us right this minute, I wouldn’t hesitate to steal her a second time, you best believe.”

“She is a person, not a goat,” Elder brother chuckled. “You cannot steal her, Sandor.”

“I mean to keep my word to her one of these days, Elder brother. Besides, according to what you’ve taught me about the Seven, the Warrior would understand,” Sandor argued the religious angle in a feeble attempt to gain footing for his position. Even though he wasn’t convinced that the gods existed, he still humored the elder man on occasion. “So would the Maiden and the Mother.”

“You may be right about that, Sandor.” Elder brother said after a long stretch of silence. “Well, I think this is enough work and talk for today. You are still quite weak from your trials and need your rest. You are excused.”

Glad to be free of the obligation to speak, Sandor returned to his cell, where Sansa quickly invaded his thoughts once more. It was ironic that this was now his preferred way to pass the time: for weeks after he left her, Sandor had drunk himself in a stupor to ease his memories of her; yet now Sandor spent the majority of his free time remembering the young woman with fiery hair who turned his world upside down.

What had become of her? Had Ilyn Payne removed her head? Had the king discovered what she had done? Had Cersei intervened on her behalf, or perhaps given her to one of their bannermen? No, she was undoubtedly dead, for Joffrey was sure to kill her if he discovered her dalliance, or do far worse than that: Petyr Baelish was notorious for the singularly cruel way he punished errant highborn maidens for their indiscretions against Lannister bannermen. 

 _You should have taken her with you, stupid dog_. More than once during his travels, Sandor almost turned back, the wild idea taking hold in his mind that he could steal her from the Red Keep but each time he had come to his senses: he would have had to fight through Gregor’s men to get there and the young wolf’s as well, and it was unlikely he would survive either of them, let alone make it into King’s Landing.

When he came across Sansa’s hellion of a little sister, Sandor did not hesitate to steal her with the intention of returning her to their brother and going into his service. Maybe if the little bird heard of it, he reasoned, she would think kindly of him. He could hardly bear knowing she would only remember him as the man who had fucked her and then fled.

It was not to be, however, for both their mother and the King in the North’s lives had been taken at the Twins during the so-called Red Wedding. After that, Sandor determined he would keep his word to her and go north, take the wolf bitch to Winterfell and keep her safe just as he had offered to do for Sansa.

Arya’s daily needling didn’t lighten his disposition any, but even though he could hardly remember knowing two sisters that were so different as the Stark girls, many of the wolf bitch’s facial expressions and habits served to remind him of Sansa.  He desperately wanted to talk to her about her sister, even attempted to do so on several occasions; but after she learned of the deaths of her mother and brother, Arya had no more taste for conversation than he did, and so Sandor let her alone.

Even as the Stark armies were defeated, they heard no word of what became of Sansa Stark, which was not unusual, since they did their best to avoid Lannister men; yet Sandor’s dreams grew ever more vivid of Sansa the further they traveled north.

After a time, the dreams also came to include a red haired babe: a beautiful girl with grey eyes like his own. In his heart, Sandor knew the child was his. The man had only taken Sansa once-but then once was more than enough to bring forth a child. The dreams continued becoming more and more real as time passed, so that Sandor often laid awake and watched the wolf bitch sleep while wondering if he was losing his mind.  His anxiety for Sansa’s safety had reached a fever pitch, even higher than it had been in the Red Keep, tormenting him. But this time, even drink did little to assuage Sandor’s fear for her and their child.

Despite his distressed state, the inn had been a welcome sight, though looking back Sandor knew he should have listened to Arya. “We don’t want to go in,” she had decided suddenly, “there might be ghosts." At that point, Sandor was exhausted and heartsick, and his powerful urge for wine at that moment far outweighing his apprehension about ghosts, Lannisters, sellswords, or just about anything else.  It was a near fatal mistake on Sandor’s part.

By the time he lay feverish from infection, Sandor was ready to die, ready to be free of his regret, his misery, and his thoughts of Sansa and their babe. Out of his head with infection and fever, Sandor was repeating the words of the song Sansa had sang for him when the holy man happened upon him.

The Elder brother patiently tended the wounds both visible and invisible for the past four months but Sandor still could not bring himself to tell the holy man about his dreams of the red-haired babe. Instead, Sandor chopped wood each night until he collapsed, until exhaustion overtook him as a means of easing his mind; yet the dreams of her and their child have not only continued but have stronger each day.

After a night spent in contemplation, the rosy dawn breaking over the bay cast its long shadows along the walls of his cell, alerting him that it was time to attend his duties. Exhausted, Sandor reluctantly choked down a meager breakfast under Elder brother’s watchful gaze. While digging the first grave of the day, the holy man finally approached him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Poor,” Sandor stated through gritted teeth. Even without looking in a mirror, he knew he had dark circles from yet another sleepless night. "The damp devils this wound." _And you are devilling me, old man._

“We received word that Lord Petyr Baelish will visit us here shortly.”

The very memory of the man surged a hot wave of fresh fury through him. Slamming the spade into the soft earth, Sandor swore under his breath.

Ignoring his outburst, Elder brother continued: “He and his daughter. Apparently she is about to bring forth a child. He wants us to birth it and bless it in the Faith of the Seven, though the child will reportedly become bastard born, as was the mother.”

“Bastard born like its mother?” Sandor could not hold back his snort. “I’ve known the man Baelish since I was a greenboy. He has no daughter, Elder brother, nor any bastard born child. Had all his whores drink the moon tea.”

“What do you think this is about, then?” Elder brother raised his brow warily, watching him.

Sandor wasn’t certain. “Might be he wants to dispose of one of his whore’s offspring, though I’ve never known him to go through this much trouble to do so.”

“A man can change.” Elder brother folded his arms decisively. “You have.”

“Not that man, believe that.” Sandor spat out. “He only wants power.” _Or Sansa_.

“And how would bringing his pregnant daughter here accomplish that?”

“I’m not sure-not yet anyway.” Sandor answered thoughtfully. “I’ll think on it. I’ve been around highborns long enough to figure most of them out, given time. They aren’t that complicated.” His mind flitted to his sword, which lay hidden in his cells. _Whatever Littlefucker is up to, I’ll be ready for him when he gets here._

Seeming to read his thoughts, Elder brother stepped closer. “Sandor, the Hound is dead, remember that. We buried him in the lichyard.”

Sandor huffed a protest, but the holy man went on: “You will not speak to the man while he’s here-him or his daughter, for it is not our way. You are a penitent-a _silent_ penitent.”

 _Pentitent; bugger that; Baelish will recognize me, more like than not._ The Elder man’s admonition fell on deaf ears, for Sandor had already turned his back and hurried toward his cell, leaving his grave digging forgotten and the holy man worriedly wondering.


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa’s opportunity for escape came much sooner than she had expected. The very next day Dontos had indeed kept his word, helping her flee from the city as Joffrey lay dying, and it was with great relief that she was delivered into the hands of Petyr Baelish. It did not take long, however, before the familiar disquiet that haunted her in King’s Landing returned, following her throughout the journey to her current isolated position within the Eyrie.

She couldn’t say when it all began, for in her relief to be rid of King’s Landing, Sansa had overlooked many warning signs. Perhaps it started the moment she boarded Petyr’s ship, when he killed Dontos without so much as a moment’s hesitation. Certainly he never mistreated her in the same way the Lannisters did, and yet Petyr never let her forget the great risk he had taken in sheltering her or that she would be held accountable for Joffrey’s murder. And even as he supposedly cared for her cousin, the boy had been slowly wasting away ever since the day they arrived.

Years of observing Petyr at court taught Sansa not to put her trust him-at least not fully. She would never trust anyone again, Sansa believed, as she had so blindly trusted Joffrey. Determined not to make the same mistake again, she devoted many hours of contemplation to her current predicament. The more she thought on it, the more Sansa understood that it wasn’t a specific event that ignited her wariness of the smooth talking man; it was more about the way he made her feel. Petyr’s very presence set her on edge and her skin crawled every time he looked at her. The way his eyes never smiled when his mouth did unnerved her, for he was the only such person Sansa had ever seen behave that way. He reeked of deception much in the same way Varys did; she also sensed his interest went far deeper than a merely a desire to see her returned home.

In both Winterfell and the Red Keep, Sansa had ignored her instincts, ignored the gnawing in her gut that warned her about the queen and Joffrey, but she would not make that same mistake again. She was a Stark wolf, after all, and wolves trusting their instincts above all else. She would not be caught off guard by Baelish as she had the Lannisters, not when the life of her child was at stake.

 _I’ll keep you safe,_ the Hound’s promise echoed in her ears each night as she rubbed her belly. He had never lied to her, never deceived her in word or deed. Sandor was good as his word, even as she was heavy with child, though carrying his babe was not as much of a deterrent to Petyr that she had hoped it would be. Even though Sansa was very near her time, her benefactor watched her move about the Eyrie with an unmistakable burning intensity that was disconcerting. In fact, aside from the way he never failed to address her as his daughter, Petyr treated her in a manner than was anything but familial, and Sansa was well aware that his behavior has not escaped the notice of the help.

Her Aunt Lysa discerned it first, though Sansa had disregarded it as the ravings of a mad woman. After she married Petyr, she flew into a jealous rage that ended when Baelish pushed her out of the Moon door without a moment’s hesitation. The look on his face when he turned back toward her sent a shiver straight up Sansa’s spine, and it was then that she realized it was every bit as important for her to play her role there as it had been in the Red Keep. _He will do the same to me, when he tires of this game we’re playing_.

Even as Sansa conceded to being Alayne, Petyr’s bastard born daughter, in so doing was stripped of her identity, her religion, her standing-even her natural hair color. Though deeply resentful, Sansa went along with it, for she felt it was wisest to allow him to believe she was going along with his plans, whatever they may be, especially with the baby on the way. And yet revulsion and resignation warred within Sansa: she was indebted to him, for he had saved her and kept her identity a secret all the while she had grown to hate him.

At times, when he was kind, Sansa felt remorseful for questioning Petyr’s motives, while other times she indulged in her distrust of the man. _He saved Alayne, his daughter_ , a voice within her whispered. Petyr _had_ taken a great risk sheltering her. But she was Sansa too, not just Alayne. As the months past, it seemed that the Lord Protector was two people as well. He was Petyr, her protector, warm and funny and even gentle at times, but he was also Littlefinger, the lord she’d known at King’s Landing, smiling slyly and stroking his beard as he whispered in Queen Cersei’s ear. And Littlefinger was no friend of hers.

When Joff had her beaten, the Imp defended her, not Littlefinger. When the mob sought to rape her, the Hound carried her to safety, not Littlefinger. Littlefinger never lifted so much as his little finger for her. _A wolf always trusts its instincts,_ Sansa heard her father’s voice reassured her each night in her dreams; in the howling winds of the Vale, Sansa also heard Sandor’s rough rasp reminding her that a dog would die for her, but never lie to her.

Her belly swelled with his child with each passing day, and Sansa thought of him almost constantly now. Her maids let out her dresses weekly, something Petyr groused about on a regular basis. Myranda checked on her progress as well, and her experience at home soon brought Sansa to the conclusion that she was very close to the time her child would come forth. Catya, Sansa called her daughter in her heart, and she was both thrilled and fearful of her arrival.

She wished Sandor was with her. She had often discreetly watched him with Myrcella and Tommen, and    had been surprised by his gentleness and patience with the children. He would have made a good father for her child, if only their circumstances had been different. If only…

In contrast, Baelish had never had an interest in any child as far as Sansa could discern. “I’m in the business of pleasure, not of raising the brats that result from it.” He often commented whenever she cooed over one of the servants’ children. “And I have no use of them whatsoever, at least not unless there is something to gain from it.” Petyr leered at her, bringing a fresh wave of nausea over Sansa so that she vomited not long after he spoke.

 It puzzled Sansa that a man like Baelish who had spent his life around whores had so far not detected that she was too far along in her pregnancy to be carrying Tyrion Lannister’s child-in fact, it was beyond belief. If he did realize it, he certainly did not let on, and rarely said anything about her pregnancy, good or bad.

However, Petyr never failed to make remarks about her ever growing size, stating that he would put her on a stringent diet once the child was born even as he caressed the swell of her belly, infuriating her with his familiarity. He seemed to think it a great joke, that she was with child, and at times even gave her the impression that he considered it _his_ child.  It chilled her in a manner which not even the icy winds of the north could compare, but Sansa played her part well, allowing the man to believe anything he wanted so long as he kept her and her child safe.

“Another Lannister is well on the way into this world. And to think-he will be my grandchild.” Petyr smirked while running his palm over the curve of her back, sending a shiver through her body. “We must make haste.”

 _I am not your daughter. This child belongs to the Hound, Sandor Clegane, a man who would cut your throat if he knew I was here_ , Sansa moved away from him and fumed silently, until her mind suddenly stuck on his choice of words. “Haste? Why would we make haste?” _We never leave this frozen prison,_ Sansa bit back her words by daintily placing a slice of pear in her mouth.

“Tomorrow we away.” Petyr seemed transfixed by the movements of her mouth as she ate.

Normally she refused to look at him when he behaved in such a way, but his words caught Sansa’s attention, drawing panic up into her throat so that she could hardly speak. “Away? Where? I cannot travel in this condition-“

“You can and you _will_ ,” Petyr gripped her arm, his eyes narrowing on her. “You’ve got a ways yet, true enough, but you are too far along for this to be Tyrion’s child.” When she widened her eyes affectedly, he went on:  “Don’t look so surprised. I have forgiven your dalliance.”

Terror surged through her. Up until now he had not revealed any plans for the babe. Before Sansa could reply, he hissed in her face: “Since this child is most certainly not a Lannister, it is of no use to either of us. We must dispose of it straight away. Tell me, _Alayne_ : does this bastard of yours belong to some knight?”

“No, not a knight. And know this: you will not harm my child, of that I am certain.” Sansa lowered her eyes, fear and rage simmering together at his words. As the child grew within her, Sansa had grown bolder, fearless even; she was unsure whether it was the Stark wolf in her or perhaps the ferocity of the man whose child she carried that accounted for the change in her personality. Carefully she lifted her knife and began innocuously peeling her fruit, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on him.

“Do not overestimate my affection for you, child.” For once, Baelish could not hide his true emotions, startling her, for it was something Sansa had seldom seen. His gray green eyes were wild with ill-concealed jealousy but she did not care. “Maybe it was some pimply, overeager stable boy that fathered your bastard.”

Even through the thick wool of her gown, Sansa could feel his manicured fingernails digging into her arm, but still, it was all she could do to fight back a wicked grin. “No, he is neither a knight nor a stable boy, pimply or otherwise,” she calmly answered while running the blade of her jeweled knife over the skin of the pear with deliberate care. “And I would never underestimate you, my _lord_. I was in the Red Keep, too, or have you forgotten?”

“Were you forced?” It was as though he had not even heard the last part of her remark. For a moment, Sansa noticed a glimmer of something like sympathy in Littlefinger’s eyes, which dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. He gripped her arm further still, prompting her to answer.

“No, I was not forced.” Sansa turned her attention back to her meal and began daintily slicing her cheese. Rebelliousness welled within her, loosening her tongue further still despite her best intentions. “In fact, I rather enjoyed it.”

With that Petyr angrily yanked her to her feet. “Enjoyed it, did you? Who is the bastard? Name him! Who did this? Tell me!”

Gripping her knife tightly behind her back, Sansa fought to remained silent while extricating herself from his grasp. “Enough of this!”

Leaning closer, Petyr hissed into her ear: “What if I _enjoyed_ you? How would you like that, daughter?”

Sansa, knowing full well the folly of challenging him, nevertheless set her jaw firmly while staring into his eyes. _You could do it. The blade is sharp and long enough. You could plunge this knife into his throat and be done with him._ Maintaining her cool demeanor with difficulty, Sansa’s heart began beating wildly, all the while the weight of her words and actions thundered in her head.

She saw a moment’s hesitancy flicker in his green gaze. “You wouldn’t, not while I am so very heavy with child, Father.” Sansa answered decidedly. “You would not risk its life, not when you can profit from its birth, even if it does not have Lannister blood.”

Petyr stepped back, squinting at her.

“Do you think I am so foolish as to not realize that you have sold several of the servant’s children in the time we have been here?”

“It doesn’t matter to me what you think you know,” Baelish countered. “That wouldn’t keep me from satisfying certain curiosities.”

“You won’t, for this reason alone,” she daringly stepped closer, “You are a fastidious man. There are many distasteful _unpleasantries_ that come with this stage of pregnancy, the details of which I am sure you are very well aware.” Myranda had told her of such, and though Sansa had yet to experience such symptoms, Petyr did not know that. “No, I believe you will wait until the child is born to dispose of it, and me.” She held her bluff.

“Then you don’t know me at all, Sansa,” Petyr snarled, turning on his heel. “I have done so in the past and would do so again, should the mood strike me. The babe will be dealt with as soon as may be. And you,” he caressed his finger over her neck. “You, sweet daughter, will be glad of it.”

Glancing about the room, Sansa noticed they were alone, a dangerous position. “You are not my father. I am the daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, the blood of Winterfell.” She spat out while jerking away from his grip.

“True enough, that.” Baelish’s mouth curled into a grin while he began tracing the tip of his blade over the outer lacings of her gown. “And what if I enjoyed you? How would you like that? You never answered me.” Petyr was livid, his face bearing the same expression he wore as he pushed her aunt to her death. She knew he was far more enraged by his prospects being ruined than he was that she had given her maidenhead to a man she loved.  Still, it seemed to break something free in the man, something frightening and dangerous, and she knew better than to ignore it.

Whirling out of his grasp, Sansa knocked over the tea service, sending the silver clattering to the floor. Several of the servants hurried into the room just then to clean up. Sansa could not resist challenging him, and she set her shoulders while staring into his eyes. 

“Get out, all of you!” He bellowed at the servants before leaning closer still to her. “Don’t imagine your bastard means any more to me than the rest. And you,” he caressed his finger over her neck. “You, daughter, as I said, will be glad of it. Now ready your things. No more such nonsense; we leave at first light.”

Trembling, Sansa hurried away from him, bolting to her rooms as fast as her feet would carry her. Falling to her knees, she made the sign of the seven pointed star over her hear.  _Please, Mother, don’t let Petyr take her from me. The gods have the rest of my family. Please, leave me my daughter. She’s all I have in this world. Help me,_ she prayed, _send me a friend, a true knight to champion me._

“What is it, my lady?” Lothar called after her.

Sansa did not reply. He was not her knight, he was Baelish’s man. Without a word, she went into her interior room and slammed the door and latched the lock behind her.

“My lady, let me in.” His voice called through the door. The man had been kind to her, but he was not who she wanted.

“Please, let me be.” Sansa answered. “I am alright, just out of spirits.”

In her grief, Sansa spent the entire night entreating the gods, both old and new, and soon the pink light of dawn began creeping across the floor of her room. Despite the freezing weather, Petyr indeed escorted her from the Eyrie the very next day. 

Lothar Brune accompanied them. Despite Mya’s protests that Alayne was too far along for the journey, Baelish insisted they leave at once. Fearful he would choose a less experienced, less troublesome guide, the young woman agreed to go along as long as she could serve as Sansa’s handmaiden in addition to handling the mules necessary for the journey.

“Will Sweetrobin join us, father?” Sansa had asked nervously when there was no sign of her cousin in the convoy.

“No, he is too ill.”

“Surely you don’t want-“

He did not answer. Petyr remained taciturn the entire trip but Sansa did not care one bit; she preferred him quiet, though she rarely had encountered his silences. It made her regret her earlier cavalier attitude towards him, for she had played her hand too early, and now she began to fear his icy indifference meant the worst for her and the child. _He has no need for me anymore, and will soon dispose of us as he has so many others._

According to Mya, the Quiet Isle was a far piece to travel. Not wanting to anger Petyr further, Sansa struggled against the icy wind without complaint as they descended the narrow craggy pass. There was no part of her body that didn’t hurt, but the young woman managed the trip with Lothar’s assistance, the man veritably carrying her down the mountain. _I wish the Hound were here_ , Sansa sighed to herself as she leaned into his embrace.

Not long after reaching the Gates of the Moon, a terrible sleet storm descended upon them, holding them for the better part of a week at the holdfast. House Royce was most accommodating, but Petyr would not tarry, despite the objections of the maester on behalf of Sansa and her unborn child.

“The babe has dropped, my lord. See for yourself,” he pointed to Sansa’s belly. “The babe is getting into position to be born. You mustn’t leave now.”

“Nonsense.” Petyr waved his hand dismissively.

The old man’s forewarnings came to fruition just as Mya finished packing the mules for their departure to the Bloody Gate, for Sansa’s contractions began suddenly, sending the young woman sprawling to the ground. Her labor came upon her quickly, with the first sharp cramping soon transforming into intense, rolling spasms of pain that took her breath away and left her unable to walk.

“Help me-“ Sansa reached out. Lothar looked as though he wanted to help her, but Baelish kept him back with a wave of the hand. Kneeling, Mya smoothed Sansa’s brow and cast a worried glance toward Lothar.

Not waiting for Baelish, Lothar decidedly stepped forward and scooped Sansa up in his arms. “The babe seems to agree with the maester, my lord.”

“Very well, take her inside.” Baelish irritably commanded, even though by then Lothar had already carried Sansa back into the maester’s quarters.  

Turning toward Mya, he shouted: “You did this! You gave her herbs to speed up her time.”

“No, Lord Baelish-I swear on the gods I did not!“

“You know as well as I do that _Alayne_ wants to keep the child.” Petyr narrowed his gaze. “I know how you bastards operate, always helping one another. Well, it won’t work. As soon as the babe is born, we will be on our way and she _will_ give up the child.”

“My Lord Baelish, you cannot allow her to travel! She needs rest-“

“Your services are no longer required,” he waved her off. “Leave my sight.”


	4. Chapter 4

While being treated at the sept, a young Lannister soldier relayed that the Young Wolf’s sister wed the Imp and then later escaped the Red Keep not long after her pregnancy was announced. His words struck Sandor like a sharp blow to the chest, spiraling the man into a despondency the likes of which he had not experienced since he first heard the news at the inn with Arya.

The elicited reaction was not because Sandor did not already know about Sansa’s marriage, but rather because his first thought was of her child, the beautiful red headed girl in his dreams, the one he had hoped was _their_ child. Perhaps Tyrion got her pregnant, not him. The possibility that it was Sansa’s baby with the Imp who haunted his dreams brought a fresh wave of fury over the man.

 _The Stranger only knows what that little pervert put her through_ ; _I should have killed him years ago._ Sickened, Sandor inwardly raged at his inaction. He remembered Sansa as he last saw her: ivory cheeks flushed radiantly, perfect rosebud mouth swollen from kissing, a long finger twisting the auburn curls seductively tousled around her shoulders while she shyly watched him dress.

Sandor was weak for her, weaker than he had ever been. After he angrily turned away from her, Sansa’s beautiful Tully blue eyes glistened with tears; nothing had ever wounded him as deeply as her forlorn expression that night. He had left everything that was good and pure in his life behind when he left her, and Sandor could not bear to imagine the indignities she had suffered since then.

“Are the so-called benevolent gods punishing me for leaving her?” Sandor bitterly asked Elder brother after he confided the content of his dreams. “Because if they are, they are doing a bloody good job of it.” Angrily he faced the holy man. “Sansa was devoted; I never saw any highborn as devoted as her. She prayed all the time. I often mocked her for it but still she _would_ go to the godswood, foolish girl. If this is their idea of justice, then they can all go to the-“

“No, Sandor, they are not punishing her to further your suffering. They saved you. If they meant to punish you, the Stranger would have kept you in the Seven Hells.” Elder brother placed a large hand on Sandor’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “Instead he released you. I know it is painful to hear but ever since you arrived, I have felt the gods did so for a reason. They have a plan for you…”

Staggered into silence, Sandor brooded angrily. Long ago he had cast his childhood faith aside and had given no thought of the gods at all before he found himself on the Quiet Isle. Pointing to his scarring, his mouth curled into a wicked grin as Sandor leaned toward the Elder Brother. “You mean the same gods who allowed this now have come up with a plan for me? Too little too late, that.”

“Sandor, the same gods allowed you to live have made a plan for you,” he folded his hands into his draped sleeves. “And the more I think on it, the more I see their hands at work in the matter. Have you considered the possibility that perhaps this child is a part of the gods’ plan for you and Sansa?”

“No.” He most certainly had _not_ considered that, nor would he. The gods had fucked him over enough times that Sandor wasn’t even sure he wanted to be part of their plan, even if it _was_ for Sansa.

“You think they have planned for me to get involved even though it is possible the babe belongs to another?” Sandor couldn’t even bring himself to say Tyrion’s name. “What do they want from me? Better they had left me dead and been done with it.”

“Sandor, whether or not it is _your_ child is not the issue. This is about their plans for you and Lady Sansa.”

Enraged, Sandor’s entire body began to shake. “There is no ‘me and Lady Sansa’.” He spat out furiously.  “You best tread lightly, holy man, if you know what’s good for you.”

Gravely the Elder brother stepped closer, his soft expression challenging Sandor’s wrathful gaze. “Anger cannot mask fear, Sandor. You are afraid of failure, we both know that. You must prepare yourself.” The holy brother stepped away then, waiting for the man’s reply. Gently the Elder brother allowed Sandor time to think on his words and then probed: “If Lady Sansa is, in fact, carrying her husband’s baby and not your own, would you feel so very differently about her?”

Rage boiled hot through Sandor’s blood such as he had not experienced since the night of the battle. “No, damn it to Seven Hells!” He shouted, drawing the attention of several of the brothers nearby. 

After checking himself, Sandor quietly conceded: “Hells no, it wouldn’t matter. The babe, it would still be…hers. I would keep them both safe.” Taking his frustrations out on a nearby table, he then kicked the wreckage out of the way and stormed out of the room.

Unobtrusively Elder brother followed him to the woodpile, where Sandor began fiercely chopping logs, sending large shards of wood in every direction in his furor. Ripping off his robes, he worked furiously, his body quickly becoming lathered in sweat as he grunted out his exertions.

“Leave me alone holy man-no more talk!” Sandor snarled out when he spotted Elder brother approaching before sinking his axe deep into an exceptionally large piece of oak.

“You love her, Sandor; you mustn’t fight it.” Elder brother stated simply, a small smile curling onto his mouth. “There’s no shame in it, for love too is a gift from the gods.”

Furious, Sandor tried to sputter his reply but his words would not come. Finally, after shattering the oak burl, he admitted: “I don’t-you don’t know what you’re talking about.“

“You are a man who appreciates honest and bluntness, Sandor, so hear me out: I believe you love the Lady Sansa Stark, plain and simple. That is where your torment lies-an unfulfilled love, and a promise left unfulfilled.” Elder brother watched Sandor carefully as he spoke. “You must make peace with it.”

Never had Sandor admitted his feelings for Sansa to Elder brother; in truth, the man revealed very little of his true feelings even to himself. His memories of the little bird were his and his alone and he would not sully them by speaking them aloud.

“How in bloody hells did you come to that conclusion?” Sandor finally challenged, staring into the holy man’s eyes with a fury from which most men would shrink. Elder brother did not.

Struggling to calm his mind, Sandor slumped down on a log. The holy man’s words brought a flurry of butterflies to his stomach, sending a strange weakness throughout his body.

“She’s a highborn, not meant for the likes of me, anyway, so what does it matter?” Covering his face with his hands, Sandor turned away bitterly.

“It matters not to the heart whether a woman is highborn, smallfolk, or a sporting woman, Sandor-the heart wants what it wants. And it makes _you_ no matter whether or not the babe Lady Sansa carries is yours.”

When Sandor tried to huff out a weak protest, the Elder brother persisted. “I can see the truth in your eyes, Sandor, and there is no denying it. In fact, it is as good an admission of love as any.” With that the Elder brother handed him a towel and then walked away chuckling to himself.

Slumping down into the soft dirt, Sandor huffed as he rubbed his face, furious that Elder brother read him as easily as if he were a page out of _The Seven-Pointed Star_. How could the man believe that Sandor Clegane, the former Hound, to be in love Sansa Stark? Impossible. Love was for fools, he had always believed. After he simmered down, Sandor admitted to himself that he wasn’t even sure he knew how to love, or would even recognize the buggering feeling should it come along.

In contemplation Sandor sat there for how long he did not know, until Septon Meribald sat down beside him, the movement jerking Sandor from his thoughts. “Whatever the trouble is, my son, you must pray on it. Even if you don’t believe in the gods, pray. Mark my words, you’ll feel better.”

The man had been kind to him, cared for his wounds, and so Sandor tried to hold his tongue around him. “Aye, I will at that.”

“Good. And by the way, we received a raven that Lord Baelish and his daughter and grandchild will be arriving within a sennight. I would like you to see their rooms are readied.”

“As you wish.” Sandor answered curtly before he rose to his feet and made for the septry, leaving the septon staring after him wonderingly.

* * *

“My lady, think of your dignity.” The old septa quietly admonished as she bathed Sansa’s sweat soaked brow. Even in the middle of labor, the absurdity of the woman’s words annoyed her. All her life, she had been taught that a true lady endures childbed with forbearance, propriety, and most of all, silence, but Sansa couldn’t be bothered with any of that, nor was she in the mood to abide the old woman’s scolding. In all her life, Sansa had never been in a less dignified position than she was then,  panting and bearing down with two maesters in between her knees staring intently at her most secret of places, waiting for the first signs of the child. She wasn’t about to take a lecture during the midst of all that.

A bitter laugh rose from Sansa’s throat at the woman’s word, startling her caregivers. “And just what do you virginal septas know of childbed that you should lecture _me_?” She hissed out angrily before another contraction wracked her body. “Do not presume to tell me how to behave!” Though her voice quivered, she was angrier than she could ever recall being, save for the day Joffrey took her to see her father’s head. “And don’t you dare tell me about the gods! If the gods meant for women to bear their children with dignity, they would have never made it so bloody and painful!”

Huffing, the older woman stepped away while shaking her head and muttering prayers to the Mother. A younger septa moved to mop her brow just as her body convulsed sharply once more; Sansa screamed out as loud as her voice would allow, loud enough that her wailing echoed eerily throughout the marble walls of the Gates of the Moon.

“Come on my lady, you’re almost through.” The young woman rubbed her shoulders encouraging. With one final push, the young woman’s cries were soon joined by the howling of her newborn child.

“Well done! You brought forth a beautiful, healthy girl, my lady.” The maester proclaimed while carefully wrapping the squirming bundle and placing it in her arms. “Now rest. You have lost quite a bit of blood during your exertions.”

Tearfully Sansa smiled down at her daughter, a babe with skin as white as snow, fiery red curls and eyes as deep and stormy gray as those of her father, just as she was in her dreams. “I gave him a song and my maidenhead, and he left me with a bloody cloak and you, my precious girl,” she whispered to Catya.

Yes, Sandor had given Sansa a most precious reminder of him, a part of him that she would treasure always. _This child will never pass for Tyrion’s_ , she thought with airs both triumphant and fearful, for this detail would no doubt complicate matters with Petyr further still.

“Oh my lady she’s so lovely, as lovely as her mother!” The younger septa declared excitedly, her enthusiasm at once earing her a frown from the maesters and older septa. “Have you a name for the babe yet?”

“Yes, I do.” Sansa murmured while cooing at her daughter. “Her name is Catya.”

“How lovely!” The young septa clasped her hands together.

“Very good, my lady,” the maester presses his quill onto the birth announcement. “A daughter, Catya Stone, born to Alayne Stone on the third day of the tenth moon, 300 AC.”

Suddenly a plot formed in Sansa’s head, one that would ensure her and Catya’s survival until they reached the Quiet Isle. “Her last name will not be recorded as Catya Stone,” the young woman replied firmly, her eyes narrowing at the man. “Catya’s last name is Clegane. Catya Clegane.”

“Clegane?” The maester and septas repeated in unison. “Did I hear you correctly? The babe’s father is _the Hound_ , Sandor Clegane?”

“Yes,” Sansa nodded serenely. “Catya's sire is Sandor Clegane of House Clegane and I want her recorded as such.” She waved her finger for the maester to continue his writing. “And my name is Sansa Stark, not Alayne Stone. I wish you to correct that as well.”

“My lady, you must not say such things.” the older septa cautioned her. “You have lost a lot of blood, your mind is weakened-”

“My mind is not weakened.” Sansa determinedly replied. “Do as I say.”

“But my lady, Lord Baelish will not like this-“ the maester began.

“I am the _lady_ of the Eyrie, am I not?” Sansa arched her brow.

“Well, yes, certainly, but-“

“And you have been aware of my true identity for some time, is it not so?”

“Yes, but we are sworn to secrecy.” The younger septa disclosed weakly. “Lord Baelish will not approve of you revealing yourself in this manner.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” Sansa agreed.

“We could put down Lord Tyrion’s name, if you wish to reveal yourself it might go better for you-“

“It would go no easier, I assure you, for Lord Tyrion is accused of regicide while Sandor Clegane of desertion.”

The maester started to speak, but Sansa raised her hand. “Let us speak plainly: Catya is not my lord husband’s daughter. We never consummated our marriage, as Lord Baelish is very well aware. This child is Sandor Clegane’s daughter.”

“But my lady, are you certain you wish to reveal yourself in this manner?” He prompted her. “The consequences could be most severe.”

Shakily Sansa nodded. “I am well aware of that. You are in service to House Royce, and thus sworn to House Arryn and you will not be held accountable for obeying me. Do as your lady commands or I will have you sent to the Sky cells myself, if you are lucky; elsewise I will inform the Hound of your treachery.”

“The Hound-here in the Vale? Do you expect to see him soon?” The maesters exchanged a fearful glance.

“I do.” Sansa lied coolly.

“But my lady, we heard he turned craven the during the Blackwater battle.”

Lost in thought, Sansa did not immediately answer. She knew full well of the reports of the Hound’s behavior that night, as well as of his raping and pillaging in the Saltpans. She also knew them to be lies, but the others did not know such and she meant to use their ignorance to her advantage.

Though incensed they would deign to tell Sansa what happened that night, she kept her voice even, the young mother ever mindful of the delicate nature of the precious babe staring up at her intently.

“You were not there; however, I was,” she said finally, “and I can tell you that Sandor Clegane most certainly did not turn craven during the battle, nor was it the fighting that he feared. It was the fire, and only the fire. He was burned badly as a child and the memory returned to him. He left because he could no longer bear the wildfire.” 

“A common affliction often accompaning terrible trauma.” The maester allowed. “And certainly not one bourn of cowardice.”

She caressed Catya’s velvety cheek as she spoke. “Such a precious baby you are.” Sansa cooed at Catya, and briefly wondered, should she ever see him again, what Sandor would think of his beautiful daughter.

The door to her bedchamber swung open then, admitting her lord father. “A girl, I see,” Baelish murmured while leaning in, his each word spoken as a reproof. “More is the pity.”

“Yes, I suppose _you_ would consider her gender a pity, but not I,” She looked up at Petyr. “She is beautiful and perfect and all mine. Catya, meet Petyr Baelish.”

He reached to touch Catya’s chin, and instinctively Sansa moved her daughter out of his reach. Smirking, his eyes narrowed sharply as he studied the infant.  “Well, daughter, now we wait for the maester’s tongues to wag.”

“You deliberately revealed my identity to them.” Sansa wasn’t surprised he would press his advantage.

“I did. And should the Lannisters try anything, we’ll see what they have to say about this.”

“If the Lannisters think this child belongs to them, they will kill you to get to her,” Sansa answered matter-of-factly.

Though she just been born, Catya was already bringing out the direwolf in her, for her desire to protect her daughter weighed heavily on her. Determinedly she forced down her negative thoughts so as not to upset her child.  “No matter, I already revealed myself to the maesters.”

Chuckling low, Petyr glared at the baby. “Red hair, grey eyes…the Lannisters are not like to believe this child is theirs.” He examined Catya while the septa readied her. “I don’t recall anyone in your family having eyes this color, and certainly none of the Lannisters do.”

He had the right of it, for while Arya and Ned had grey eyes, theirs held a smoky hue while Sandor’s steel colored eyes were lighter and very clear, like the clouds of the north. “Nonsense. My father, sister and my brother Jon all have, or I should say _had_ , grey eyes.”

Petyr stroked his beard and watched her. Sansa held her bluff and nuzzled her daughter while holding out her finger for the baby to grab. She wished he would leave so she could nurse; she was most uncomfortable, for her breasts, now heavy with milk, ached painfully.

Sensing Sansa’s agitation, the babe began to fuss and nuzzle her, bringing the septa hurrying to the bedside. “She’s hungry, my lady.”

“Of course. Let’s get you your supper, my love,” she cooed at Catya. When the septa moved to take her, Sansa kindly stilled her hand. “Thank you, but please, I want to feed her myself.”

“A _lady_ has a wet nurse for such things,” Baelish remarked, disgusted. “It is beneath you to engage in such base behavior, daughter-bastard born though you are.”

“This may come as a surprise to one such as you, but the gods gifted _all_ women, lady and bastard born alike with this anatomy in order to nourish our young, not for the entertainment of men.”

Behind her Sansa heard the maester’s ill suppressed laughter, to which Petyr responded by merely smirking and stroking his beard.

“My mother was the greatest lady I have ever known, and she nursed all of us,” Sansa said simply. “And I’m no lady, I’m your bastard, Father, for you have made me such.”

Petyr’s jaw clenched at her words.  “So we’re back to that. You are not as smart as you imagine, _Sansa_ ,” he hissed. “If you nurse that child, your teats will stretch so far out of shape I’ll never be able to make a suitable match for you.”

 _All the better,_ Sansa thought to herself. Ignoring him, she turned to the septa: “I just need help learning how to do it properly. Will you teach me?”

“You never watched your mother?” Petyr’s green eyes studied her intently. “A pity.”

“My lady mother never nursed my sister and brothers in front of the rest of the family,” Sansa pointedly answered with a shake of her head. “A tradition I plan on continuing.”

Just then Mya knocked softly on the door. “May I come in?”

“Yes, please do,” Sansa called out weakly, not waiting for Petyr’s reply. Between the exertions of bearing Catya and the stress of Petyr’s presence, Sansa’s had trouble making her mouth form words. He head was beginning to swim and so she laid back against the pillow. ”Now, if you will please excuse me, _Father_ , I wish to feed my daughter.”

“Your services will not be required once we leave the Vale, Mya.” Baelish casually commented as she walked past.

The young woman gaped but said nothing in reply.

* * *

Their departure came sooner than Sansa expected. Despite the warnings of the Royce maesters, Lord Baelish insisted their travels continue after a sennight. Bleary eyed, Sansa allowed Petyr to help her into the wagon. Beside their caravan, the maesters and septas tittered their disapproval.

“You are a slow learner, Sansa,” he mocked in her ear. “As was your father.” Before she replied, Petyr called out. “Ser Marwyn Belmore, execute these men and women on the charge of treason.”

Stunned, the man stammered: “The maesters and septas? My lord-“

“You heard my command. They falsely reported my daughter as Sansa Stark in hopes of drawing the Lannisters here, ostensibly to unseat me as Lord Protector of the Vale.”

With a wave of the hand, the maesters and septas were overtaken by the guards. Sniffing, Baelish snapped the reins without so much as a glance. As they traveled away, Sansa could hear their screams resounding through the mountain pass. Squeezing her eyes closed, she willed herself not to hear them while praying that the Seven would hear their pleadings for mercy. It was not to be; before long, all fell silent once again. It seemed to Sansa that no matter what she did, people were continuously dying around her. Would she never find a safe place for her child? Bitterly Sansa grieved for the fallen, for her daughter, for Sandor and for herself.

As punishment for her behavior, Petyr took control of Catya’s provisions after making it clear to Sansa that if she expected to have her daughter delivered alive to the Quiet Isle, she had better mind herself, and mind herself she did.  He ordered her tent kept her tent chilled as a warning, should she decide to try another scheme, of what he would do to her daughter.

Devoting all her of her energy to keeping her daughter warm, the young woman soon fell ill. Upon reaching the Saltpans, Sansa burned with fever, leading Petyr to reluctantly send word ahead to the septry that his party would be arriving with a sick woman.

Upon arrival at the Quiet Isle, Sansa was so weak that Lothar Brune had to carry her to the septry. Septon Meribald and Elder brother immediately went to work, treating Sansa with bitter herbal remedies and mustard plasters that burned Sansa’s nose.

Fading in and out of conscious, she weakly grabbed the Elder brother’s sleeve and whispered: “My baby-please, help her.“

“Never you mind, my lady,” Septon Meribald smiled down at her. His face looked as though she were peering at him through a frost covered window. “We’ve already bathed and bundled your little one, safe and sound. She’s fast asleep now.”

“Don’t let him take her from me-“

“What happened to the lady-?” Elder McCann inquired of Petyr as the other brothers tended her, all the while watching Sansa worriedly.

“Alayne is her name. My dear daughter went into labor in the Vale,” Sansa heard Baelish answer, the affected tone of his voice infuriating her.  She strained to protest, but her voice was so weak no one heard her.

“Shhh easy, there.” Septon Meribald murmured softly while examining her belly as Baelish continued. “My lord, it was far too soon for her to travel after childbed. You should have been mindful of such. She has lost a lot of blood.”

“She was fine after the child was brought forth, and though we were assured it was safe for her to travel, it seems that we were misled.” Petyr stroked his beard. “The maesters of House Royce will be punished accordingly.”

“She has pleurisy.” Elder brother moved her to her side and pressed his ear to her back. “But thank the Mother, she has plenty of milk. The child can still nurse.”

Septon Meribald let out a relieved sigh.

“I am certain you men can attend both without my interference.” Petyr sighed and made for the door. “I’m to see a couple about adopting the child tomorrow, so if you will excuse me, I will take my leave.”

Sansa would die before she allowed that to happen. Mustering all of her strength, she tried to scream out her objections and fight against the men, but no sound came from her mouth. Weary from her feeble attempts, Sansa turned to an exceptionally large brother who appeared by her side and reached out to him. As his large calloused hand enveloped her own, Sansa’s world faded into blackness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long! We had a death in the family and the muse eluded me for a bit.

Even as the darkness beckoned, Sansa struggled to maintain her grip on reality. _I am a wolf, a Stark of Winterfell_ , she repeated in her head. Try as she might, though, coherent thought continued to elude Sansa. Faces and locations both familiar and unknown floated passed her, ever changing, ever evolving, carrying her into scenes of the future by forces unseen. _Were the old gods trying to strengthen her?_ The images left her confused, disoriented and alone. It seemed the only constant in Sansa's existence was the very tall, broad holy brother wearing a hooded cowl and brown dunn robes who remained beside her night and day.

She could not see his face but his brooding, formidable presence made her feel somewhat safer, a silent sentry of sorts sent by the new gods to look after her. Night and day he never left her side, nor did he seem to need sleep. Sansa found a certain inexplicable measure of security in his unwavering presence which she grew to depend upon.

Feebly Sansa thrashed while clutching about the bedding, her body soaked with sweat. Through her fevered haze, motherly instinct denied her rest. Like a true wolf, all of Sansa's senses keened on Petyr, knowing that he would seize the opportunity to get rid of Catya as she languished, helpless to stop him. This awareness reinforced her resolve to fight harder, to claw at the glimmer of light that seemed just beyond her reach.

“Easy lass, easy now,” strong hands gently pressed her back into the corn husk mattress, the touch warm, familiar. “No one’s taken the babe, she’s right beside you.”

The rasping voice who spoke to her struck a cord of recognition in the young woman. She recognized the voice as belonging to the brother who stayed with her, but as time passed, a wild idea took hold of her. Could he be the Hound? No, that was impossible. The Hound was dead Petyr had said, but it was not as if she did not expect him to lie about that. If it _was_ true, however, and the masculine voice in her ear truly belonged to the Hound, then perhaps she had already crossed over. Sansa dismissed the idea as soon as it came, for if she had entered the afterlife, her father and mother and Robb would surely be the first to appear to her. Cool water dripped down her cheek, wetting her chapped lips. _No, I am not dead, and neither will I succumb to the Stranger._

Her head pounded and Sansa felt the floor float beneath her. _No, I will not lose consciousness so long as Petyr still wants to steal my daughter_.

"That's the way." The rasping voice murmured softly as she sunk back against the pillow.

 _Who was that? Who spoke? Please, tell me._ She tried to speak but her cottony mouth could not form the words. _Where is Catya?_ Blindly Sansa groped for the cooing bundle beside her. Large hands took hold of her own and then placed her arms around the baby. Quickly Sansa took hold of Catya, grasping her daughter against her chest, her head spinning wildly with the movement.

Distantly she recognized Petyr’s voice smoothly speaking to the others, the sound bringing another shiver of fury surging through her. Why had he spared her and Catya? Why did he not just order Luther to kill them both on the road and be done with it? He had ordered the deaths of the maesters and septas easily enough; what stopped him from doing likewise to her and her daughter?  What was he about? And how did disposing of Catya fit into his plan?  Hushed voices echoed around her but their sounds seemed drowned out by her babbling newborn. Sansa strained with all her might but still barely could make out their words.

“She is very ill, my Lord Baelish,” Elder brother quietly spoke. “Her fever rages. She has pneumonia caused by descending the high altitude of the Vale too quickly after childbed.”

“Will she live?” She heard Petyr ask, a glimmer of concern flickering in his otherwise smooth tone.

“I believe she will.” Septon Meribald’s voice answered. “She is otherwise healthy, young and strong. The next few days are critical, my lord."

“Tomorrow we will take her to the sulfur springs,” Elder brother chimed in. "It does not smell good I grant you, but drinking and bathing in the water has medicinal value.”

A heavy silence settled over the room until Petyr replied coolly: “Very well, then, you may take her on the morrow. Meanwhile, let us proceed with the adoption of the babe. Surely many come here looking for a child, is it not so?”

Several holy men began anxiously whispering until Septon Meribald finally spoke again. “Aye, some. My lord, pray, can this not wait?”

“No. It must be done now.” Petyr said defiantly.

“Then I am obliged to remind you that the holy brothers cannot adopt a child out if the mother does not wish it.”

Petyr snorted derisively. “That has not been my experience in King’s Landing.”

“What is done in King’s Landing is the providence of the High Sparrow. While we honor His High Holiness’s ideals, here on the Quiet Isle we have our own duty to the Seven.” Septon Meribald answered definitively. “And in any case separating mother and child now could very well rob your beloved daughter of the will to live. I am certain that is the last thing you would wish for her, my lord.”

Seething with a rage she was helpless to express, Sansa tossed her head. _It is exactly what he would wish, for he could free himself without actually raising his hand against me. You will not take my daughter from me. I will die first and so will you._ With great effort Sansa strained to comprehend Petyr’s next words, though he spoke far too low for her to grasp them.

A large, roughened hand gently stroked her forehead. “My Lady Alayne, I am Elder brother. You and your daughter are safe with us. No one will take the babe from you, I swear it on the Seven. Please, try not to struggle so, for it is dangerous in your fragile state. Let us pray.”  Quietly he took her hand and then offered his supplications.

Afterward the young woman heard the rasp of the familiar holy brother’s voice next to the shell of her ear.  “I’ll not let him take the babe from you, believe that. Rest now.”

“Sandor-“ Sansa moaned about, desperately trying to reach for the man. “-help me.”

“What did she say?” Petyr demanded before the brothers insisted he remain quiet. “Who did she call for? Did she ask for me?”

“Please, my lord, your daughter is most distressed,” Elder McCann led him to the door. “Let us break our fast and we can return after she has slept. What say you?”

Once again she felt his large calloused palm against her own. “Little bird,” Sansa heard him whisper into her ear. “I mean to keep my promise. I failed you once and I’ll not do it again. I’ll keep you safe, you and the babe. No one will hurt you or I’ll kill them.”  Unsure as to whether or not she were dreaming, she tried to reach out to him once more. Not long after, Sansa succumbed to sleep.

* * *

Sansa's appearance distraught Sandor to the point that the man could hardly bear to look at her. Her illness frightened him far more than any battle, or even wildfire for that matter. Worse still, Sandor could hardly look at her child as well, for even the slightest hint that the baby was a Lannister would destroy his deepest held hopes. Leaving Sansa in King's Landing had nearly broken him; if the child was not his, Sandor was certain he would shatter beyond repair, unable to move on.

Before long, Sandor’s curiosity won out, however, and from the moment he laid eyes on Catya, he knew deep in his heart that the child was his. The babe was a beauty just like her mother, with skin of fresh cream and a headful of fiery curls. And her eyes-well, the babe’s eyes disclosed the truth of her parentage all too plainly, for in them Sandor recognized his sister’s own grey gaze as well as his own; and there was no denying she was a Clegane.                                       

Catya, he heard her called by Sansa, and in Sandor's eyes the babe could not have been more perfect. He had never heard a woman called such before but Sandor liked the name well enough; it was a clever blend of the little bird’s mother and sister’s names. Yes, the little bird had given him a beautiful daughter, a sweet little birdling, and his desire to protect and keep her surged stronger than any emotion the man had ever experienced, even to the point of nearly threatening to overtake his reason. Sandor knew that if he was to help Sansa and the babe it was essential that he keep his true identity a secret from Baelish, and he never removed his cowl in the man's presence.

Baelish did not seem even remotely interested in him and neither was Lothar Brune; both men seemed completely ignorant of the danger Sandor presented. Beneath his robes, he clutched his katar, his knuckles white from restraint and the blade longing to taste Petyr's flesh. Elder brother suspected his murderous intent, though, and more than once had stilled his hand.

"You must not, Sandor. The Hound is dead."

Sandor longed to pound it into the bloody man's head that he was a dog, and that dogs were loyal and protected their pups no matter the cost.

"You've not had a child," was all he managed to reply to the holy  man. "You don't understand."

"No, but unless you claim the babe as your own, neither have you a child," the Elder brother replied simply before offering him the baby.

As Sansa recuperated, the holy brothers took turns caring for Catya. Both Septon Meribald and Elder brother had encouraged him to hold her, but Sandor could not bring himself to do it. But, he was never far from the baby, the man keeping a watchful eye during her care as well as when she slept.

Fidgeting, Sandor anxiously observed the men handling her in the bath until finally he could keep silent no longer.

“Watch her head! It’s too close to the edge of the basin. And keep her warm! Watch her now; her skin is turning to goose flesh! If she comes down ill, I'll-"

“You are a _silent_ brother.” Elder brother quietly admonished. "You must mind yourself."

Frowning, Sandor choked down his rage by turning and stoking the fire. "Then do your job _right_."

“It sounds as though you have done this before, Brother Digger,” Septon Meribald’s eyes twinkled. “You have my permission to speak: is it so?”

He had bathed off Joffrey plenty of times and Tommen too, when they were small, for Cersei cast off handmaidens and septas as easily as she changed gowns. Moving beside the fire, he held Catya’s blanket and towel in front of it, warming them.

“Might be, could be,” the burned side of Sandor’s mouth twitched as he spoke. “What of it?”

“Only that it is unusual in Westerosi culture for a man to be the caregiver of a child not his own.” The holy man casually commented while closely observing him. 

Sandor remained silent with difficulty, for even though now he had permission to speak, he also lost his will to do so.

“And even when the child belongs to the man, it is not often they are personally involved in caregiving.” Elder brother agreed. “Fathers tend to leave the child with a family or often hire help.”

Stiffening, Sandor grunted at that. “More fool, them.”

Elder brother lifted the baby out of the tub, and the sudden chill earned him a very angry shriek from Catya. Pleased with her spirit, Sandor chuckled as he quickly handed the holy a warm towel. _Aye, she’s mine, the wee one_. His hands itched to take her into his arms, to warm her and snuggle his nose in the downy nape of her neck. But Sandor resolutely resisted, the man instead gripping and relaxing his fists as a means of releasing his pent-up longing.

Elder brother babbled nonsense as he wrapped Catya in the warm blankets. She seemed to enjoy the attention, Sandor noted as he watched the babe snuggle down and coo contentedly. She looked so pure, so sweet that it was all Sandor could do not to scoop her up in his arms.

Elder brother, seemingly sensing his feelings, offered: “Would you like to hold her?”

Reaching out, Sandor gritted his teeth and then quickly recoiled his hands, balling them in fists at his sides. “Best not.”

“Sandor, there is no shame in holding your own-“

Apprehension clutched at his throat. “The babe is better off not knowing her Pa, holy man, believe that.”

“How can you truly believe that? The Hound is dead. And as you heard, Sansa called out for  _Sandor Clegane_ , not the Hound. She sees you for who you truly are and she wants you-she needs you.”

Rubbing his hand down the front over his face, Sandor vehemently shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. She feared me in King’s Landing-“

“And now _you_ are the one that is afraid, is it not so?” Septon Meribald quietly answered. “Afraid to face the truth that she cares for you, are you? Sandor, if she feared you, she would not call out to you. She would not reach for you.”

Tipping her head up to the Elder brother, Catya screwed up her rosebud mouth into a pout and began fussing.

“You care for her very deeply,” Elder brother sighed as he bounced Catya on his hip. “You comforted her, you whispered to her, you held her hand. You haven’t left her since you arrived. The gods have brought you together once more and their will cannot be denied. You must seize this opportunity for both your sakes.”

“The gods expect you to take responsibility for your own kin," Septon Meribald commented severely. "That is why you feel driven to do these things, Sandor. Are you so blind to their will that you cannot see it?”

His head swam at the holy men’s words. “No!” Sandor finally spat out. “Let me be!”

Bitter tears stung his eyes as he quitted the room.  He heard Catya suddenly burst into tears, the sound tearing at his heart and drawing him back to the cabin but for a moment; after mastering his emotions, he turned and hurried to the stables.


	6. Chapter 6

She was all lush curves and smooth skin under his touch. When Sansa looked at up at him, she blushingly smiled, her skin aglow in the firelight. He could hardly catch his breath, she was so beautiful, so willing. In his heart he knew she was his and his alone; yes, Sansa was now his wife. Heatedly Sandor moved within her, reveling in the pleasure her body urged from the very depths of his being. When he felt her long legs wrap around his waist, heard the soft cries of pleasure in his ear, Sandor knew she was close to completion.

Somewhere in the background, though, he faintly heard the voices of men, the sound angering him. Who dared intrude on their marital chambers? It was then Sandor realized he was dreaming, that he had dozed off sitting at Sansa’s beside while the brothers quietly discussed her treatment. Awakening with a start, he warily glanced Baelish’s direction. Foolishly the man had his back to him, and not for the first time Sandor thought of how easy it would be to slit the mockingbird's throat.

Beside him the little bird whimpered in her dreams, and he fleetingly wondered if she ever dreamt of him as he did her.

“What say you, Brother Digger? You are her caregiver; should she or should she not go into the pool?” Elder brother's voice abruptly tore him from his thoughts.

“Not yet.” Sandor spoke tersely, hoping Baelish would not recognize his rasping tone. Dutifully Sandor had attended her and had so been designated the overseer of her care, all the while he alternated between supplicating the gods on her behalf and plotting Petyr Baelish’s untimely demise in the goriest fashions imaginable.

Maintaining the air of a penitent was becoming ever more difficult as his familial, primal desire to protect them grew stronger with each passing day. As long as Baelish remained on the Isle, the man found himself unwilling to leave Sansa’s side for even for the briefest of moments, and fortunately, neither Elder brother nor Septon Meribald had asked him to do so.

The brothers noticed that he preferred handling Sansa’s care alone, for after the first few days, Septon Meribald had entrusted her care solely to him. He was glad of it, too, for he seethed with jealously whenever any of the brothers so much as laid a hand on her, the man envying them every touch, every moment with her. It had been far too long since he had watched over his little bird. Unlike in the Red Keep, looking after her now left him satisfied in a way Sandor had never before experienced. But as the week wore on, he began to worry in earnest; for despite his efforts, there was little change in her condition. 

Catya fussed softly in the cradle beside Sansa’s bed, drawing his attention away from the proceedings. With her riot of auburn curls, she looked like a little red wolf cub wriggling beneath the furs. Determined she would not fall to her mother’s illness, Sandor had bundled her himself, though he resolutely refused to hold her.

“I’ll hold her when her mother is well enough to hand her to me. I needs know for true if that is what she wants.” He explained to Elder brother. The truth was that Sandor knew if he held her in his arms, he would be hard pressed to give her up, even if the little bird didn’t want him to be in their lives.

Sandor stretched his leg out and gently rocked it back and forth with his foot, causing her whining to transform into delighted squealing. Even though he knew she could not see his face, Sandor smiled at the babe beneath his cowl. With Sansa so gravely ill, Catya was the only glimmer of light in his life he had left, and even though he still would not take her into his arms, he took comfort in the presence of his infant daughter.

After much deliberation, Elder brother and Septon Meribald determined it was far too dangerous for Sansa to enter the hot springs while burning with fever but that she still needed the benefit of the sulfur water. While the men talked, Sandor listened intently, the man desperately longing to do all he could for his little bird, now the mother of his only child. Without hesitation, he immediately offered to make the journey to the hot springs to retrieve the water for her and the men at once agreed.

It felt good being on his fierce courser again, on the move with the wind in his face. That evening he ran Stranger harder than ever before. When Sandor returned to the cottage, Sansa awakened and reached out for him, her deep blue eyes brightening at the sight of him. Though he cursed his own foolishness, Sandor’s first instinct was to run to her and lift her into his arms. With great self-control, Sandor instead slowly made his way to Sansa’s side, taking her small hand into his own.

Neither Elder brother nor Septon Meribald reacted, but Baelish did.

“What do you think you are doing?” Petyr almost shouted, his green eyes glittering defiantly. “I cannot tolerate such presumptuousness! My daughter is not inviting your attentions, she-”

Enraged to hear him dare speak for Sansa, Sandor whirled around to face him. Sansa squeezed his hand tighter but before he could act, Elder brother interrupted Lord Baelish’s angry outburst.

“My lord, she is better, but she still needs care day and night. He is her caregiver, as all the other brothers already have duties assigned to them.”

“Yes, but is there truly no other who can do it?” Baelish raised his brow.

“It is Brother Digger’s gods-given duty to assist her in any way she may need: physically, emotionally, and spiritually," Septon Meribald icily replied. "That _is_ why you brought her here, is it not?”

Fuming, Petyr did not respond.

Sandor could feel the intensity of the man’s gaze upon him, but he had no fucks to give about what Littlefinger thought of him. If the man didn’t watch his step, Sandor would wring his neck in front of the brothers and, penitence be hanged, gladly go to the Seven hells knowing the little bird was free of him at last.

“It is not for you to assume authority among us. Brother Digger, you will continue with your duties for Lady Alayne.” Septon Meribald announced authoritatively. “You will have the duty of feeding her the sulfuric water. A half cup every three hours night and day, do you understand?”

Wordlessly Sandor bowed his response, though his hands clutched the katar so tightly that the textured grip of the handle dug into his skin.

“Very well, then.” Petyr Baelish finally assented, the man seemingly all too grateful to be relieved of the responsibility. “I will be leaving shortly so it is for the best.”

The holy brothers carefully took note of Baelish’s reaction, Sandor could tell by the grave expressions on each of the men’s faces.

Later Elder brother admitted to him that he had ever known _any_ parent, no matter how grievously ill or injured themselves, who did not insist on personally caring for their children. It was then that both he and Septon Meribald came to believe the truth of Lady Alayne’s identity.

“Leaving?” Septon Meribald raised a brow.

“Yes, _leaving_.”

“We can keep both mother and child here for as long as you need, my lord,” Elder brother offered. “Return at your leisure.”

“I’m bound for the north once I am assured of her safety.” Baelish smiled, though his eyes remained shadowy and obstinate.

_Robert Arryn is dead; Littlefucker must have killed him. He means to wed Sansa as a way of securing control of the north. He’ll keep Catya hidden away so that if Sansa refuses to go along with it, he can use her child to control her. Since the little bird’s siblings are gone, if Sansa gives him too much of a fight, he’ll kill her and present her babe as the true heir of Winterfell._

Rage shook his large frame at the notion; Sandor bit the inside of his lip until he tasted blood.

* * *

On the fourth day, Sansa’s fever finally broke. Her gown and bedding were soaked through with sweat, rendering her shift sheer and clingy. Hurriedly Sandor wrapped her in clean blankets and held her close, relief driving him to tears that he tried to hide from her.

Though Sansa shivered in his arms, Sandor felt her small soft hand cup his face through the cowl, and as he raised his eyes to her, she smiled wanly at him.

”It is you! Oh Sandor, I thought you were only in my dreams or that I glimpsed you in the afterlife,” Sansa began to cry, her voice barely above a whisper. “I prayed to see you again! Petyr said you were dead-“

“Shh, little bird, calm yourself,” He pressed his lips to her damp forehead, the man struggling to keep his emotions in check. Her skin was velvety, salty, and Sandor was loathe to turn loose of her. “I’ll not leave you again. Now keep still, will you? You mustn’t say any such thing with Baelish lurking about.”

Sandor tucked her closer to him still and began stroking her hair. In her weakened state, it was unrealistic to expect her to restrain herself. Sandor could do no more than comfort her and hope for the best. Her fever had stayed dangerously high for so long that he feared there could many things wrong with her yet, and so Sandor did what he could to keep her quiet.

While Elder brother thoroughly examined her, Sandor reluctantly moved away, but still he stood nearby and gritted his teeth, all the while wondering and fearing the worst. Sandor’s entire focus had been on caring for her, and now he found waiting for Elder brother to determine the outcome of his labors was intolerable.

“She is safe,” Elder brother finally proclaimed, breathing a great sigh as he gently pulled the sheet over her thin frame. “Alayne’s lungs have cleared and her fever is gone. There does not appear to be any permanent damage. Thank the Seven.” He made the sign of the seven pointed star over his heart and then over Sansa. Now he would see if he had done enough for Sansa, if he had been able to save her the way he so desired. 

“Thank the Seven.” Septon Meribald sighed in agreement, the man making the same gesture while Sandor bowed his silent response. “The gods have saved your daughter, my lord.”

“Yes, thank the gods,” Baelish demurred distractedly.

"And Brother Digger, my lord." Septon Meribald added. "Let us not forget his efforts."

Baelish did not seem to hear the man.  “Now we can get to the matter at hand, the adoption of the child.” Petyr resolutely refused to tear his eyes away from Sansa, igniting Sandor's fury in an instant. With great difficulty he fought to choke down his natural tendency to slit the man's throat. But for perhaps the first time in his life, he also felt a profound gratitude that ran far deeper than what he felt for Elder brother saving his life. Appreciativeness overpowered Sandor's rage and quickly mellowed into a richer sentiment the man was wont to name.

It was undeniable even to a formerly staunch unbeliever such as he that, while the gods had never seen fit to help _him_ , the only explanation for Sansa’s survival was that they indeed had stepped in and delivered her from the grasp of the Stranger. While the new feeling somewhat disturbed him, Sandor nevertheless sheepishly offered his prayer of thanks just as Septon Meribald had taught him.

As if sensing his thoughts, Sansa’s eyes suddenly fluttered open, and Elder brother quickly moved Catya into her arms.

“Catya? Sandor? Are you there?” She moved to rise from the bed as she turned toward him, clutching the baby to her breast. “Sandor come to me, please-“

“Who is she asking for?” Petyr raised his voice. “Did she say _Sandor_?”

As much as he relished her response to him, the soldier in Sandor wished she would refrain in front of Baelish. It was dangerous to them both, and most of all, to Catya. Gripping his katar, Sandor’s muscles tensed, his eyes darting between Sansa and Baelish.

“Shh, my lady, you mustn’t try to speak. You are out of danger and on the way recovery now but you are also still very weak,” Elder brother quickly hushed her. "You must write your thoughts for now."

Septon Meribald brought a small tureen to her bedside. “You must try to take nourishment, my lady.”

Meekly Sansa nodded and submitted as he held a spoonful of soup to her lips, uneasily glancing between the men as she did so.

Elder brother handed her a quill and parchment and immediately she began writing. 

“Surely this can wait, my lord. Perhaps she thinks she is in another place, one in which she previously lived-such is not uncommon after an extended period of illness.” The septon casually commented. “Come my lady, try to take a bit more of the broth.”

“Sandor is not a common name in Westeros. I have known of only one."  Baelish demanded of the young holy man standing to his right. "Is this the given name of the brother caring for her?“

“I could not say. I know of him only as Brother Digger,” Elder McCann shrugged. “She may be calling a friend from long ago-a childhood friend, perhaps?”

Before Baelish answered, Septon Meribald turned toward Sandor. “Brother Digger, you make take Lady Alayne into the hot springs. Please ready Driftwood, will you?”

Bowing, Sandor kept his eyes lowered, even though every instinct screamed to kill Baelish and rush to Sansa’s side.

“Are you sure that is appropriate?” Petyr raised his brow. “Having her go with him alone?”

Sansa handed Elder brother the parchment; the man nodded in recognition but remained silent.

“Brother Digger is the best swimmer here.” Septon Meribald calmly answered, ignoring Petyr’s prurient implication. “What exactly is it that concerns you?”

Baelish’s mouth stretched into a thin line. “It is no matter,” he forced out. “We will not be here for long.” With that he turned from the room.

“Sandor-“ Sansa whispered, holding her hand out to him. “Stay with us.”

Wordlessly he moved beside her and, taking the tureen from Elder McCann, he prompted her to take nourishment.

After she ate her fill, Sansa drifted off to sleep.

As Sandor made for the stables, Elder brother handed him the note Sansa wrote. “You needs read this.”

Carefully he took in her familiar curling script: 

> _Sandor,_
> 
> _You are Catya’s father. You feel it in your heart, I know you do. I want you to know your daughter and I want us to learn each other._
> 
> _The gods have given us this chance, please, do not run away from it. Hopefully one day, gods willing, we can be a family, that is, if your vows do not prevent it._
> 
> _If they do I would gladly stay here and serve alongside you so that Catya could be in your life._
> 
> _I have no family left, Sandor. Do not give up on us, please, do not run away from me again._
> 
> _Sansa_

Clenching his jaw, Sandor remained silent, fighting back bitter tears as he traced his finger reverently over her handwriting.

 _Stupid little bird, she doesn’t know what she’s asking_ , the bitter remnants of the Hound within him cursed, while another, deeper place within him shouted that he loved her, that her words were true. Sandor could not deny this part of his heart. He longed to give Sansa what she asked as he longed for the very air he breathed, as though it were essential to his very well being to care for her and their babe.

“The lady risked a _great_ deal giving that to me with Lord Baelish not ten feet away.” Elder brother quietly observed.

"Aye, she's always been wolf-blooded, that one," Sandor weakly stated.“But I am a penitent here.”

“You have been given the chance you have longed for-the chance to keep her safe, to protect her," Elder brother patted him. "There is no shame in doing so. Caring for your family is also service to the gods, Sandor,” He rested his hand on his shoulder. “Love is a gift from the gods. You must make this choice for yourself, commit to it in your heart; it is not my place to convince you. But before you make any final decision, I would have Sansa introduce you to your daughter proper; then we’ll see if you still find it in your heart to refuse her.”

At his words, Sandor began trembling, for he knew he could not, would not, turn his back on her as he had the night of the battle. Apparently the holy man knew it as well, for when he looked toward him, Elder brother was smiling broadly. “You needn’t say a word. Pray on it, Sandor. Now then, I’ll keep the babe safe and you take her to the pools as Septon Meribald ordered.”


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa rested in a thick nest of furs Sandor arranged on Elder brother’s pallet and slumbered while he made the preparations for the journey to the hot springs. Faintly she heard the sounds of Elder brother concocting yet another pouch of herbal teas and foodstuffs meant to strengthen her. Sansa's mind felt hazy still, an aftereffect of the fever. After several moments passed and she did not hear Sandor’s voice, she opened her eyes.

He stood staring out the door of the Hermit’s Hole, his hulking form resting heavily on his forearms against the framework. Somehow, he appeared much larger than she remembered. Squinting against the light, she studied him closely. Even through his penitent’s robes, Sansa could see the tension in his body; she had seen him similarly tense during the bread riots. The profile of the scarred side of his face twisted in a frightening manner as he frowned angrily.

Beside him, Septon Meribald calmly folded his hands, but his deportment mirroring Sandor’s attentiveness. Just as she was about to ask what the men were staring at, Septon Meribald spoke up.

“Baelish and his host are nearly out of sight, you see, Brother Digger?”

Sandor did not answer, but from the way his shoulders finally slumped, Sansa knew he had relaxed.

“He took quite a retinue with him. Did he say how long he would be gone?” Elder brother asked, his tone guarded.

Sansa’s eyes darted toward the fierce warrior; Sandor glared at him but the man ignored it and bounced Catya on his hip.

“He did not confide his destination to me, but it seems they will not be returning before tomorrow judging by the amount of packed goods in their company.” He looked to Sandor.

“Did you pack the abundance of drink and food Lord Baelish requested for the journey?”

Impassively, Sandor grunted and nodded his response.

Sansa turned and stared at him. “ _You_ prepared their food and drink?”

“Aye that I did. Septon Meribald’s orders. I made enough food to last them a sennight, and medicine too.” He glared at her. “It is my duty.”

His dismissive tone annoyed her. Frowning, Sansa settled back into the furs.

“Well done, Brother Digger.” The holy man sighed. “They will need it, I fear. It is obvious they are habituated to eating their fill and not like to suffer want, as the smallfolk do. There is naught on the way to the Saltpans, and I doubt Ser Quincy will receive Lord Baelish in the manner to which the man is accustomed.”

 _Petyr means to hide Catya and me with Ser Quincy, a man who will refuse admittance into his castle anyone other his liege lord or the septons,_ Sansa’s mind raced desperately. _No one will ever think to look for me there. I will not let that happen. I cannot!_

Distress overwhelmed her, and Sansa began to cry in earnest, the sound weak and pitiful even to her own ears.

Alarmed, Sandor abruptly turned toward her.

“No, please, don’t let them take me or our daughter!” Fearfully she reached out for Sandor, who by then had hurried to her side. “You must help us-“

“Don’t you fret, little bird.” Sandor rasped firmly as knelt beside her and clumsily patted her on the hand. “It’ll be alright.”

The holy men exchanged concerned glances. Septon Meribald frowned disapprovingly but Sansa did not care; she needed Sandor’s help and she would crawl on her knees if need be to save her daughter, if not herself.

Ignoring the holy men, Sandor’s gaze bored into her own, and in his deep gray eyes, Sansa saw that he was silently begging for her trust.

 _What is he about?_ Sansa wondered, though she cast her eyes downward to hide her emotional state.

“What is it, Lady Sansa? Please, you must remain calm. I know this must come as a shock. I can help you cope with this,” Elder brother worriedly stared at her from the foot of her bed. “Free your mind, my lady.”

“Lord Baelish is Lord of Harrenhal and Lord Paramount of the Trident, replacing House Tully of Riverrun as liege lord of the Riverlands,” Sansa intoned emotionlessly, never tearing her gaze away from Sandor. “Ser Quincy has little choice but to receive him and to do whatever he asks. He means to take us there-or perhaps only me, after selling off our daughter!” A thickness swelled in her throat as she spoke, making her last words nearly inaudible.

With his jaw clenched, Sandor reached out and patted her. “That won’t happen.” He spoke so low that Sansa knew his words were meant for her ears alone. She wanted to shout and sob, but in her weakened state, all she could do was whimper quietly.

“It is for the best that Lord Baelish leave,” Elder brother mused, “despite your health and his reasons for going. I will pray to the Warrior that he stay gone for you and the sake of your child. The Mother will keep you together, and the Crone will give you the wisdom to cope with it,” he raised his brow at Sandor. “The gods will see to it.”

Without a word, Sandor bent to lift her into his arms, his face unreadable, stern. “Trust me, little bird,” Sandor’s lips brushed the shell of her ear. “I’ll keep you and the babe safe.”

No embrace ever felt so reassuring to Sansa-save for those of her father-and suddenly a calm settled over her, much as had happened when they left the Vale. _He has always kept me safe, and the gods are with us._ She was certain that they had led her to Sandor and that they would yet hear her prayers for deliverance. With a small smile, Sansa relaxed in his arms.

“I do, Sandor. I trust you.”

“My lady, you must remember that he is Sandor Clegane no more,” Septon Meribald reprimanded. “He is Brother Digger now.”

Chastened, Sansa looked at Sandor once more, who rolled his eyes at the septon’s words. “Buggering hells-“

Swallowing hard, Sansa spoke over his hushed curses, “Forgive me, Septon Meribald.”

Gazing into Sandor’s face, she noticed his eyes glimmered with rage at the man, though he remained silent.

“Baelish and the men will be gone for a while so rest assured that the babe is safe, my lady.” Elder brother stared between them. “All will go well. I have seen it.”

“Yes, I am greatly relieved to hear you say that, Elder brother.”

“Very good, my lady. Your faith will see you through.” Septon Meribald eyed Sandor closely, who was still awkwardly holding her on the pallet. “Perhaps now you will feel comfortable going to the hot springs, Brother Digger.“

“Aye.” Sandor stiffly nodded. “Come, my lady.” He lifted her into his arms.

Tentatively Sansa placed her hands around his neck and submitted to being carried as Elder brother wrapped another fur around her frame.

“Keep warm, my lady.”

“I will. Thank you, Elder brother. Will you say in the Hermit’s Hole with the babe while we are gone?” She asked.

“Certainly,” Elder brother placed his hand on Sandor’s shoulder. “I will keep Catya cloistered here with me until you return.”

“And you won’t leave the safety of this place for any reason?” Sansa could not help ask yet again.

“No, I swear it on the Warrior himself that I will protect and keep her.” Elder brother reiterated again as he squarely met her gaze. “Catya is safe with me.”

“See that she is.” Sandor snarled as he possessively squeezed Sansa against his heavily muscled chest.

Fatigue weighed heavily on the young woman now assured that she and Catya would be safe, though a small voice reminded her that danger still surrounded them. Sansa inhaled deeply, breathing Sandor in, reveling in the security of his arms. _With Sandor here, no one can harm us. Thank you,_ she repeated silently as an invocation to the Warrior, until only Sandor’s warm, powerful presence remained and slumber overtook her.

* * *

They made the ride to the hot springs in silence. It was unlike the silences of old, when Sandor would brood and Sansa would nervously chirp her learned courtesies; no, this felt restful, even peaceful, this stillness between them.

Sandor wondered if it was a sign the gods had granted him a measure of forgiveness, allowing him to enjoy such with her. If Sansa’s tranquil companionship was all the good he was granted, then Sandor would be satisfied, for it was more than the man ever expected to have in life.

As they neared the rocky trail to the hot springs, Sandor rested Sansa across his lap so his own body could absorb the rocking motion of Stranger’s gait. She had wrapped her arms around him and rested her face in the crook of his neck. The rise and fall of her chest was slow and steady against him, her warm breath washing over his neck and throat; occasionally her eyelashes tickled his cheek. Even in her weakened condition, Sandor relished holding Sansa, savoring the feel of her small frame in his arms.

Tilting her face up to him, Sandor stared into her eyes. They seemed even bluer than he remembered, and she met his gaze calmly and without hesitation. It was different than the way he recalled. It was honest and open. It was intoxicating. As was to be expected, Sandor recognized there were questions forming in her mind.

“Ask me, little bird.” He gazed steadily into her eyes.

“I beg pardon?” Knitting her brows, she sat up, her face fraught with worry.

Anxiety washed over him.

“Ask me whatever’s troubling your pretty little head,” Sandor gruffly repeated while willing himself to remain calm. “Go on. You know you want to.” Remembering she used to fear his anger, he tried to soften the tone of his voice. “Gods, woman, go ahead. I’d say we’re a bit beyond shying away from one another.”

Biting her lip, Sansa then smiled as she unhesitatingly asked, “How did you get to this place?"

 _It must have looked odd to see the Hound now a brother of the Seven;_ Sandor could not suppress a chuckle.

“Been holding that one in a while, have you?”

“Yes,” Sansa admitted bashfully while pursing her lips together as she tried to gauge his reaction. “If I may be so bold, this is the last place in the Seven kingdoms that I expected to see _you_.”

“True enough, that. If you had told me in the Red Keep that I’d be here, I’d have called you the worst of names.” He laughed again.

Frowning, Sansa’s face grew serious. “I heard-well, that is to say, Petyr said you were-“ her lip quivered, tempting Sandor to lean down and steal a kiss.

“Dead,” he leaned closer to her, his nose almost touching hers, using all his strength to tear his eyes away from her mouth. “Heard that one myself. Damned near was, too. The Elder man found me injured and tended me.” Then and there Sandor decided he would save the part about Arya for later. “After I gave up my former ways and agreed to work here digging graves, he proclaimed the Hound was dead. He even marked my ‘grave'. I’ll show you, if you like.”

Sansa remained silent.

“I would like that,” she finally murmured. “I-I grieved deeply for you, though in my heart I felt you were alive.”

Taken aback, he pulled away from her. “What in bloody hells does that mean?”

“I don’t rightly understand it myself,” Sansa shrugged. “Just an intuition, I guess, perhaps because I was with child. The Mother does miraculous things for women then, you know.”

Shrugging, he grunted at that.

She hesitantly touched his chest. “Tell me: did you find peace?” Her eyes searched his own pleadingly.

Sandor thought a minute. Had he found peace? Sandor wasn’t rightly sure. He had experienced it so little during his life that he was unsure if he would even recognize the condition. Was peace the absence of war? The effects of war certainly reached the Quiet Isle in the form of maimed bodies, the increase of burials, hunger and want; but so far, no fighting had directly affected the septry. The Quiet Isle was remote and isolated; how could Sandor possibly know if what he felt was truly peace or if he just lacked the opportunity for violence? He tended to think it was more the latter and not that he had become a peaceful man-whatever that buggering meant.

“My anger, rage-whatever you want to name it-has been calmed considerably here.” Sandor stated, the man feeling that was as close to an explanation as he could offer her. He was determined not to mock her, though, for she was so earnest that her emotion had taken him by surprise, and at any rate, as the mother of his only child, she deserved better from him.

“I’m so very glad,” Sansa suddenly reached up and cupped his face tenderly. “I prayed that the Mother would save you and gentle your rage the night of the battle. It seems she answered my prayers.”

Sandor could feel her hand trembling, and then realized it was he who was trembling beneath her fingertips. They stayed that way for a while, staring silently at each other, with Sansa holding his face much in the same way as she did on their last night together, until Sandor raised her hand to his lips and softly kissed her.

Blushing, Sansa lowered her eyes, though her hand remained on his face, holding both the burned and sound sides.

“We’re almost there,” Sandor cleared his throat and pointed toward the yellow banks of the steaming pool.

“Oh!” She sat up with a start when the sulfuric odor rising from the hot springs reached her nose.

Try though he might, Sandor could not repress a chuckle. “Does the sulfur offend your delicate highborn nose, little bird?”

“It certainly does, though I don’t know if being highborn has anything to do with being unable to tolerate such a noxious odor. It burns my eyes,” Sansa began to laugh and she wrinkled her nose and then buried her face in her sleeve. “It smells like the rotten eggs Arya and I used to throw at my brothers.”

“ _You_ throwing eggs? I don’t believe it,” he chided her, tisking and shaking his head while relishing the opportunity to tease her gently. “Your hellion of a little sister, aye, but not the likes of you.”

“Well, Sandor Clegane, you would be surprised at some of the discourteous things I’ve done in my day.” Her deep blue eyes twinkled at him as she lifted her chin.

Hearing the sound of her soft voice saying his name sent a shiver through Sandor. He smirked at her as his eyes roamed over her body. “The sulfur water should cut the rest of that shit brown dye out of your hair, too.”

Self-consciously Sansa’s hand went to her braid, and she blushed deeply once more. “Petyr’s idea of a disguise, for all the good it did me. I’ll be glad to see it gone.”

“So will I.” He raised his brow. “It’ll match the rest of you.”

Sansa’s eyes lit up mischievously, and Sandor bit his lip at the bawdy comment that left his mouth. “We’ll bath off in the freshwater lake nearby with lemon soap when we’re through soaking.” He stated to change the subject.

“I have to bathe in it and drink it too?” Sansa looked suspiciously at the steaming yellow water and wrinkled her nose once more.

“It’s what you’ve been drinking, lass. It will help you heal. Do it for the sake of Catya.” Sandor snorted, the man suddenly shamefully casting his eyes to the ground. “Forgive me; you’re a lass no longer.”

“You speak truly," Sansa awkwardly sat up, pulling away from him. “I am no longer a maiden, but a woman bedded and a mother besides, made so by you.” She leaned forward and rested her hand on his arm. “You did nothing wrong, Sandor, so do not take my words as a chastening.”

Sandor acutely felt the shift in her mood. Guilt still weighed heavily on him, however. Swallowing hard, he averted his gaze from hers.

“You’re a lady, Sansa. You’ve always been a lady.”

Smiling, she squeezed his arm.

“About the babe…we needs have a talk.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Sansa murmured. “Let’s do so while we bathe.” She wriggled into position for him to help her down. “Help me, please. I’m as weak as a newborn wolf cub.”

Carefully Sandor then lifted her from Stranger’s back, settled her onto a rock and then began gently undressing Sansa. She was so weak he had to hold her up with one arm while he stripped off her soiled shift and smallclothes. Afterward, Sandor quickly shed his robe but left on the girdle he had fashioned for smallclothes. Feebly Sansa clung to him while shifting her eyes away from him, her cheeks blushing prettily.

Trying hard not to stare at her beautiful body exposed to him, Sandor lifted her in his arms and then waded into the water. Lying backward, he surprised Sansa by floating with her lying on his chest and her back to him. Sansa squirmed a bit until she found a comfortable position with her head resting on his collarbone until she eventually relaxed in the decidedly intimate position.

The weight of the unspoken bore down on the couple.

“Do you want Catya to be in your life?” Sansa finally whispered, just as Sandor was about to speak.

“I do,” Sandor sighed and rubbed his hand over her stomach. So focused on his next words was he that Sandor wad hardly cognizant of the intimate tenderness of the gesture until he felt Sansa stiffen slightly at the contact. “You and the babe both. Is that what you want?”

Staring down at her, Sandor regretted that her face was hidden from him by a curtain of hair, but he felt Sansa relax into his touch and lightly place her hand over his. Satisfyingly, he noticed she did nothing to still his caresses.

“You know that it is,” she rolled over to face him, blushing furiously at her own daring and amusing him greatly. “Have you taken vows?” Sansa’s deep blue eyes desperately searched his own. “Because I would rather stay here with you, being your friend and the mother of your child, than wed another.” She shivered involuntarily as she spoke the word.

Fury radiated through Sandor as he imagined the indignities she suffered while married to the Imp. He would not force a confidence from her, however; she would speak of it when she was ready, as would he one day. Pushing aside his darker thoughts, Sandor shook his head, all the while relishing the relieved expression the gesture brought to her lovely face.

“We’ll do as you said in your note, lass,” he kissed her forehead in an almost brotherly manner. “We’ll get to know each other. We’ll learn to parent together as well, for while I cared for Joffrey some, there’s much I needs learn.”

“Oh, Sandor, I would like that very much,” Sansa began to cry in earnest, “it is all that I have prayed for.” Clumsily she tried to wipe her eyes with a wet hand.

“Hush with that, now,” Sandor sighed heavily. “We’ll take our time. What say you, little bird? Does that suit you?”

It was his turn to hold his breath while waiting for her answer.

“Yes,” she beamed up at him, removing his hand from her belly and kissing it soundly. Suddenly her face fell.

“But?” Sandor prompted.

“But what shall we do about Petyr?” Nervously she chewed her lip.

His eyes narrowing, Sandor smirked. “Never you mind him, lass. I’ve taken care of Littlefucker.”

Tearfully Sansa turned to face him. “Oh, Sandor, what have you done?”

“Only what I had to do.”

Panic stricken, Sansa swayed on her feet until Sandor held her steady. Reaching up, she held his face in her hands. “Mother’s mercy, I couldn’t bear for you to be taken from me over him-”

Gripping her chin, Sandor growled low, “It won’t happen. I swore I’d keep you safe, Sansa, and I’ll not shirk on my promise and duty to you and the pup. Trust me?”

“Yes, I do, Sandor,” she answered decisively, though she anxiously wrung her hands.

“Say it. Say you trust me.” Sandor insisted, holding her chin to prevent her from turning aside.

Offering him a watery smile, she said, “I trust you. You know I do.” Then she rested her hand over his heart.

“Good girl,” he settled her in front of him. “Now, no more questions.”

With that Sandor pushed her toward the shallow end, not ungently.


End file.
